A Dream of You
by Caprittarius'Rising
Summary: The story seen through the eyes of Mr. Darcy following the story line from the 2005 movie. Not necessarily meant to be in Regency style. Inspired by a comment from the director's commentary. Read with a British accent.
1. To Sleep

There was a woman in his bed.

Not just a woman, to be sure; a woman with whom his familiarity was quite intimate. From the curve of her pretty nose to the pattern of freckles atop her left foot, he knew her body and its rhythms and pleasures. Astoundingly, she delighted in his touch as much as he delighted in hers. He could recall in an instant the silky texture of her skin pressed against him both in heated passion and in cooler moments of more chaste affections. He could recall the feeling of taking her slowly to the peak of that passion well as the sounds she made along the way— sounds that heated his blood every time.

Patiently, he watched her stir awake wrapped in nothing but bed linens still fragrant with the mingled scent of their bodies. Still and again he wanted her. Without question this scene had occurred before, perhaps hundreds of times in their shared history. A sense of intense, ardent love existed between them. Theirs was anything but a passing fancy or casual acquaintance. She was his home, his life, his love and most remarkable of all she was his wife, the Mistress of Pemberley.

He awoke slowly with a sense of extreme disorientation. When his eyes struggled open, even the familiar sight of his bedchamber at Netherfield failed to penetrate the haze of his dream-addled state. For a moment, its reality gripped him more strongly than the one slowly encroaching on his senses. He nearly turned toward _her_ side of the bed. A light floral aroma lingered in the air reminiscent of her skin. The music of her laughter seemed to have just faded from the room. As wakefulness finally won control, he bit back a loud groan.

Who the devil _was_ this woman who plagued his thoughts? How could he dream so intimately about a woman for whom he had no name? How could the connection, so strong in sleep, leave next to nothing for him to cling to upon waking?

Intermittently for months now he had experienced dreams of an alarmingly similar nature, all surrounding this woman. One occurrence was easily dismissed as an anomaly, two a strange coincidence. A significant passage of time after the first grouping of dreams caused him to nearly forget the mysterious female presence that visited at night.

When the dreams began to resurface, he first attempted to deny a pattern was forming. It could not possibly be the same as before. However, when the dreams increased both in intensity and well… specificity, Darcy began to worry outright. For the first time in his life, he entertained the possibility that he was being haunted by some kind of strange ghost.

Never in his life had he been so completely arrested by something intangible and certainly not by a dream. He knew there were those who sought to assign meaning to the images found during slumber as though they contained portentous information. And amongst these he likewise knew, never mind how, there were self-proclaimed fortune-tellers who claimed the ability to divine the future by interpreting such images—for a price, naturally. Not only did he find such a notion ridiculous, he had never before dreamed vividly enough to concern himself with any sort of deeper meaning.

That is, until now. Or more precisely, until _her_.

Each time he dreamed, he felt closer to the woman, her destiny more and more unaccountably interwoven with his own. Which was preposterous. He was not entirely convinced of the idea that God, let alone destiny guided one's life, not that he would ever own to such a scandalous opinion. Still, specific details eluded his waking memory. Try as he might, all he could be certain of was her eyes.

He remembered her eyes being a shade of brown as lush as the richest freshly turned loam he had ever seen. Warm and lively, they were framed by a perfect fanning of dark eyelashes. The combination was more captivating than strictly beautiful, but he was more profoundly drawn to those eyes than he cared to admit.

In more fanciful moments, he pondered the strange realization that never once had he supposed he might be dreaming about a woman with whom he was already associated. The possibility never occurred to him. He knew instinctively he would find not even the smallest reflection of _her_ in any woman of his acquaintance to date. In less guarded moments, he found himself clandestinely searching the eyes of unfamiliar females hoping to find those that caused his heart to pound as it did in the dreams. His disappointment, though acute, was quickly ignored or filtered away for later analysis if any took place at all.

He also quite steadfastly refused to acknowledge the increasingly obvious supposition that he was plainly waiting for this woman to enter his life. Obviously, the endless prattle surrounding him in society regarding love and marriage had infiltrated his senses; his mind certainly concocted its own ideal version of events. It was only natural that a part of him should wish to marry for affection rather than mere pecuniary gains. Realistically, however, he had neither the time nor the inclination to indulge in such romantic fancies.

Hardly helpful was the added annoyance that each repetition of the nocturnal fantasy left him with a sharp sense of a thing missing in his life just at a time when he felt quite at ease with his circumstances. Thus far, he had maintained the success of his estate without marriage, society be damned. Eventually he would have to marry if only to procure an heir but it was an inevitability he chose not to dwell on yet.

Needless to say, the morning after such episodes always saw him in the blackest of moods. Days would pass before he could get through an entire one without reflecting on brown eyes clouded with desire upon a tender kiss or something as equally inappropriate. This frustrated him to no end. If he had to dream about a woman at all, why must he dream about an affair passionate enough to make him blush? No respectable woman would behave in such a manner, and certainly not the future Mistress of Pemberley.

Yet, all the disappointment he coldly turned away in company and daylight returned with great vengeance when he was alone and in the solitude of darkness. In those moments, he felt lost and more alone than ever.

Certainly he experienced sensations of supposed isolation in the past. When his father died, it had taken nearly a year to completely purge the incredible sense of loneliness the absence created. Aside from the grief, he felt adrift and inadequate to the challenges laid before him. Master of Pemberley and guardian to his young sister both felt like titles he was ill prepared to bear though he had been groomed for both his entire life. He approached these obstacles as he approached everything, however, with an unwaveringly practical sense of propriety and obligation to his name and rank. Behaving as though every decision he made was unquestionable no matter the situation took no little practice until one day he came to believe it himself. He could allow very little to sway his opinions or belief in his right to express them lest he come to look weak or indecisive.

At times he wished the elder Darcy had left a slightly less illustrious legacy to his only son. In times of great uncertainty, he envied the simplest peasant the ease of near anonymity and sense of being answerable to no one but oneself.

Suffice it to say that for many reasons Mr. Darcy could be forgiven for awakening in an already foul state of mind on the morning in question. The dreams had been occurring with more frequency of late but on this particular occasion he was more vexed than usual. He had surmised some time ago that the woman he dreamt of was somehow connected to his dream self. Because he was simultaneously shocked and fascinated by the ardent nature of their imaginary relationship, he took for granted the association was more in line with that of a mistress. He never once fathomed that their connection was matrimony!

Mistress of Pemberley indeed. The idea of such a woman as his wife was laughable at best.

When he finally got his bearings, he remembered there was indeed more than one reason to dread the day. Not only was he doomed to struggle against dredges of elusive and fictitious memories, which would undoubtedly present themselves at the most inopportune moments, but today was also the long awaited and long dreaded Meryton Assembly. (He refused to think on it in the same terms as a ball no matter how similar it was to an event of that name.) Somehow he had allowed Bingley to plead and cajole him into pledging to provide moral support during what was sure to be an entirely boorish evening.

Bingley had the habit of working himself into a bit of frenzy before such events, all but convinced something disastrous would befall him without Darcy's steadying presence. Darcy, on the other hand, held the opinion that it would be far more productive, especially to his own interests, to encourage Bingley by beforehand building confidence enough to attend such events with only Miss Bingley, his sister as sufficient company. No matter how often he expressed this to Bingley, however, the younger man always managed to convince Darcy to accompany him with the added promise to attempt to enjoy the evening. Darcy rarely managed to uphold the second half of this arrangement.

Therefore, it was with a very audible groan that Darcy raised his hands and scrubbed the skin of his face vigorously in an attempt to rid his mind of the decidedly libidinous dream. He would need all of his wits about him if he were to survive the assembly intact. Joseph, his valet, who had been hovering in the dressing chamber just beyond, cracked the adjoining door slightly at the noise.

"Forgive me, sir. Are you in need of assistance?"

"No, not at all. Why do you ask?" Darcy spoke rather sharply, mildly surprised at the man's unorthodox intrusion. Thus far, the man had proven to be quite as proficient in service as his man Victor at Pemberley. Usually, Joseph awaited his presence in the dressing chamber with all the necessary accoutrements for his morning toilette already laid out.

"My apologies Mr. Darcy, sir," he stammered. "It's just that you've slept rather later than usual this morning." Darcy shook his head in confusion. He usually rose about an hour after daybreak unless he wanted to take an early ride.

"Really? What is the hour?"

"'Tis half past nine, sir. I hope you have not taken ill?"

"No, I thank you. I shall be but a moment, Joseph." Darcy sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb.

"Very good, sir," Joseph said with relief. The door clicked softly shut.

Throwing back the bed covers and sitting up, Darcy laughed mirthlessly. Though it was not in his nature to indulge such thoughts, he was hard pressed to ignore the sense that fortune was not favoring him this morning. For as he threw the bed covers away, he realized his body had betrayed him in more than one involuntary fashion. It seemed he had more to be embarrassed by than simply sleeping too late.


	2. Perchance to Dream

"Ah, Darcy. There you are. I was beginning to wonder if I should have Joseph wake you with a dash of water!" Charles Bingley smiled at his jest as Darcy entered the breakfast room some twenty minutes later. "It is strange, though. There seems to be exactly the same level of brandy in the snifter as there was when I retired last night," he said with mock seriousness. "Perhaps you paid a servant to refill it? I shall have to ferret out the responsible party!"

"If only there were such an excuse for my late rising, though you are well aware I never overindulge in spirits," Darcy replied with a frown. "I fear my rest has lately been somewhat erratic, I know not why. My apologies, Bingley." He wondered for a moment why he bothered to feign ignorance as to his troubled sleep. Perhaps it would make the strange burden slightly easier to bear if he were straightforward with his friend about the dreams or at least as straightforward as propriety allowed.

"Nonsense, Darcy. I've reason to believe the boundaries of Netherfield will still be there later today if not tomorrow." The two of them had planned to ride the full boundary line of the property so as to become familiar with its extent and holdings. As it was, they would hardly have time to ride half its length before returning to prepare for the night's festivities. "And as my guest," Bingley continued, "I should think it perfectly acceptable to overindulge on occasion be it in sleep or in spirits. Though I must say never once in our acquaintance have I known you to rise later than my sister." Bingley chuckled to himself, soundly dismissing Darcy's concern with his usual affability and returning to his newspaper.

"Yes, I suppose you're right," Darcy said quietly, surprised at the judicious nature of Bingley's observations.

Throughout the course of their friendship, Darcy had found himself inclined to act as an adviser of sorts to the younger man primarily because Bingley simply lacked experience in matters of business. Secondarily, Bingley needed a bit of general direction. Often, Darcy forgot their age difference was only a matter of a few years for it often felt greater. He knew theirs was an unlikely friendship with Bingley's amiability compared to his far more solemn nature. In many ways, Bingley was one of the few friends whose continued relationship was not based solely on the Darcy name and the connections it afforded.

Simply put, they each provided a modicum of balance to the other.

Something in Bingley's open and unassuming nature that morning compelled Darcy to ruminate on the possibility of sharing a little of his troubles with his friend. Though not the first time he considered this, it suddenly felt vital to share the matter with someone. And who better than his closet friend?

If such a conversation were to take place, the question was how much to divulge and to what end. He thought it unlikely Bingley would be able to offer any great insight not already entertained. He fought against the immediate concern that discussing such subjects would undoubtedly expose him to ridicule. While chancy, if anyone could be trusted to keep his confidence, it was Charles. Though open and sometimes playful in nature, Bingley would surely not tease too severely if he explained just how thoroughly the situation aggravated him. Perhaps revealing his distress would diminish its powerful hold over him. Most enticing was the possibility that speaking of the dreams might cause them to cease altogether! _If only the solution could _be_ so easy_, Darcy sighed to himself.

Such was the case that Darcy had just opened his mouth to speak when Caroline Bingley entered the room.

"Mr. Darcy! Oh, how glad we are to see you no longer abed," she remarked with a curtsey. "I assume you are in good health?" There was a pause in which Darcy could only blink at her in apparent consternation. Why did everyone seem to be under the impression that he was ill?

"He is well, Caroline," Bingley interjected, giving Darcy an odd look. "Just a little out of sorts this morning." Darcy cleared his throat uncomfortably, unaccustomed as he was to the authority Bingley seemed to have commanded this morning.

"So I see." Caroline swept past him to resume her seat at the table, taking the opportunity to brush past him closer than necessary. She prepared herself a cup of tea, turning towards him as she did so as to invite further conversation. Darcy merely scowled and attacked his breakfast dish with ferocity. The urge to divulge his private troubles seemed to have evaporated as quickly as it arose. He was now irritated with himself for contemplating such drastic action in the first place.

"Charles, I find it is unseasonably warm outside," Caroline said. "The pair of you, indeed all of us had much better rest this afternoon if you still insist we all attend that dreadful assembly this evening. I fear we shall need to conserve our energies." She sipped daintily at her tea as Bingley folded the newspaper and handed it across the table to Darcy. The latter tried not to curl his lip at the barbed enunciation of the word _dreadful_.

"Yes, I still _insist_ on attending, Caroline. Really, I don't see why you are so reluctant," Bingley declared. "I have already promised several new acquaintances that I shall attend with the rest of my party as you are well aware. It would be unacceptable for me to attended alone now." Caroline pouted prettily at the truth of his words.

"Of course, I know it is important for you to make a good impression, Brother," she said. "I simply find these country manners to be every bit an unrefined as I expected. I'm sure Mr. Darcy would agree with me on that score." She cast a demurely heavy lidded look in Darcy's direction over the top of her teacup.

"'Country' manners?" Bingley's brows drew together. "I confess I did not notice a great difference from 'city' manners to what you call 'country' manners."

"Charles, do be serious."

"Only if I must, Caroline. Actually, Darcy," he turned toward the other, "I have it on good authority that there will be no shortage of young ladies to dance with, some of whom are reported to be singularly pretty! Why, Mr. Bennet of Longbourn alone has five daughters, all said to be beauties in their own right, especially the eldest two." Caroline rolled her eyes and turned a meaningful eye toward Darcy.

"Of course they are said to be local beauties! Those who believe so hardly have any other beauty to judge by this far from Town. Honestly, Charles, I am sure there are but a few who are truly pretty and even less who are accomplished. I shall suffer for want of society."

"Nevertheless, I intend to judge for myself. Come now, what say you, Darcy?"

Darcy hesitated in his reply, loathe as he was to broach a familiar point of contention between them in his already dark temper. "I do recall hearing of the Bennet sisters, Bingley, but I would endeavor to keep from setting any hopes too high," he finished diplomatically.

"Well, I for one am looking forward to the evening. Perhaps you will both feel differently when faced with all five Miss Bennets at once. I am sure they will be uniformly charming," Bingley encouraged with twinkling eyes.

Darcy nodded slightly, uncertain whether the comment was meant to tease or Bingley simply did not understand how improper it would be for him to honor any of the daughters in attendance with a dance. Even if he cared to dance he would have to be extremely cautious as to whom he extended an invitation so as not to give the wrong impression. Either way, he was fated to pass the evening in discontent.

But fate, being considerably less predictable than humans prefer, apparently found recent events so delightful that continuing to intervene in the life of poor Mr. Darcy proved too hard to resist. Even with the recent excess activity of his mind, he could scarcely have imagined what really awaited him.


	3. To Be

As the carriage traversed the last stretch of road before the assembly hall, Darcy's apprehension came to a head. He hoped his reluctance went unnoticed by Bingley, who quite absorbed by his own case of nerves. As it was, several times throughout the journey Darcy made himself inhale deeply so as to keep from letting loose a deep sigh of discontent.

His reticence unfortunately could not be attributed to nerves but rather a general distaste for situations that caused him to feel as though he were on display. Within his usual social circle at least, the feeling was more comparable to passing inspection than blatant and unpleasant gawking. He feared tonight's gathering would subject him to the latter sort of attention, a notion he despised.

No doubt he would begin by hearing whispers of Bingley's fortune only to be eclipsed by murmurings of his own ten thousand a year. And just as expected, the evening would end with everyone convinced of the superiority of Bingley's amiable nature and disappointed that he was not the wealthier of the two. Not that he particularly minded. Once the mothers, fathers and daughters drew that inevitable conclusion, he would be free to focus on enduring the boisterous cacophony that marked this sort of affair.

To be more precise, he would be free to practice distracting his mind from lingering overlong on thoughts that crept in during idle moments. He had fought for distractions the entire day. In fact, the thoughts of _her_ seemed even more insidious than usual. He began to think of her as a small child demanding attention.

All of this was much to Caroline Bingley's consternation as she was even less able than normal to coax him into conversation. She spent the afternoon half-heartedly practicing on the pianoforte whilst expressing her dismay in the form of what she hoped was a pretty pout about her mouth. Bingley too had commented on his obvious inattentiveness, stating that although Darcy had stared at a book for above a half hour, he had yet to turn a page.

In light of all this, Darcy found it even more difficult than usual to hide his discomfiture under the inscrutable countenance he spent much time perfecting. He could think of no justification to return early to Netherfield without exercising obvious subterfuge. For the first time in years, he contemplated feigning illness as means of avoidance, but dismissed the idea as juvenile. Moreover, he hated the prospect of breaking his word to Bingley even on so trivial a matter.

After what seemed an age, the carriage stopped and their party alighted. To Darcy's surprise, the men at the doors wore the white powdered wigs that usually adorned servants of prominent families. They bowed slightly in tandem and moved to push the heavy double doors open widely enough to admit the three of them as one. Darcy nearly drew back when he realized their formation put him at the head of the party with Charles and Caroline on either side of him. He was tempted to insist Bingley go before him though it was customary to allow those of higher consequence to precede others. But before he could shift position, momentum carried them past the threshold.

As they were fashionably late, due to Caroline's desire to make a grand entrance, there was already a dance in progress. The space was such that they entered at the long end of the hall and subsequently, at the end of the line of couples. A young girl first spied their presence and stopped, staring openly. Eventually, the nearest dancers ceased movement lest they run into the next in line.

All came to a halt. A hush stole across the room as the music faded. All eyes turned toward the newcomers with many craning necks to see past their neighbors. A man approached whom Darcy recognized as Sir William Lucas, a member of the local gentry who had called previously at Netherfield.

"How good of you to come." Sir William began leading them slowly down the middle of the room. Darcy scanned the crowd disinterestedly, half listening to muttered introductions. As he swept his eyes casually to the right, the absolute last sight he expected to behold caught his attention.

The very eyes he could not forget. Brown and rich, sparkling, fringed with dark lashes. The finest eyes he'd ever beheld and yet seen only within a dream.

There, in the face of an unexceptional girl wearing a dark green dress, were the eyes of the mysterious woman.

No. Surely he was mistaken. _No, it cannot be_, he reasoned. _For heaven's sake, 'tis nothing but a figment!_ For an instant, he was sure he recognized that particular brown hue. Quickly he fixed his gaze as she dropped a curtsey with the women around her, eyes lowered.

Then, as though she sensed his disquiet, she looked at him directly. He shifted his gaze ahead hastily, barely able to contain a bombardment of emotion. His heartbeat quickened, as he somehow knew it would.

Those eyes. _Her_ eyes. Eyes he had seen dozens of times in a multitude of different expressions in what might as well be another life.

Fortunately for one who had been walking since just after his first birthday, his legs continued propelling him ahead unabated for he was otherwise unaware of his surroundings. He felt entirely disconnected from his environs as though plunged into a suddenly tangible dream world.

Hopeful that he had not stared excessively long at this stranger, he prayed no one had noticed his odd behavior least of all the girl in the green dress. The interval must have been short if he was able to continue forward without impeding the Bingleys behind him.

They continued to the head of the room as he forced his expression back into its usual mask, ignoring his confusion for the moment. Darcy kept quiet as Bingley and Sir William continued conversing together. The instruments began playing again as the dancers took up their places as though no interruption occurred. He glanced in her direction but she had turned back toward her companions, thus preventing further study.

How very inconvenient indeed to encounter the apparent embodiment of his dream here in the country at a ball he had no wish to attend! And on a day in particular when he would have dearly loved to be shut up alone with nothing more than a book to keep company with his disagreeable mood. Obviously he was still mistaken, his mind playing tricks on him. Clearly, he projected these strange secret desires onto an unwitting, unknown young woman. His restless nights apparently caused more injury to his psyche than he previously believed. He would consult his physician as soon as he was back in London. _And that is the end of it!_

He forced the matter from his mind ruthlessly, thus preventing anyone from noticing his preoccupation. Proficient as he was at maintaining composure, even Bingley did not notice his unease. He had only just managed to believe he was experiencing nothing more than the fruition of an exhausted mind when a group of people lined up for an introduction including the girl in green.

Mr. Bennet of Longbourn, who had also been a guest at Netherfield several days ago, led the group. Darcy darted a glance in the girl's direction as understanding dawned. She must be one of his five daughters. _Perfect_, Darcy thought, keeping his face neutral.

Little did he know, his attempt at neutrality was perceived as near incivility.

"Mr. Bingley, my eldest daughter you know," Sir William began. Charlotte Lucas gave a small bob and smiled politely. "Mrs. Bennet, Miss Jane Bennet, Elizabeth, and Miss Mary Bennet." Each lady curtseyed in turn. Against his will, Darcy took note of her name and turned it over in his mind. _Elizabeth Bennet_.

Already, Bingley appeared transfixed by the eldest Miss Bennet. Darcy resisted the urge to roll his eyes in irritation though she was arguably the prettiest of the lot. Fair of coloring and face, Jane Bennet appeared gentle and ethereal in a pale rose colored gown.

"It is a pleasure," their mother enthused. Her voice immediately grated on Darcy's raw nerves. "I have two others but they are already dancing." Darcy flicked his eyes toward the continuing dance, wondering if they were the two laughing more obnoxiously than the rest.

"I'm delighted to make your acquaintance." Bingley grinned, good humored as always and hardly taking his eyes from the eldest daughter.

"And may I introduce Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, in Derbyshire," Sir William enunciated pointedly.

Yet another stab of irritation made itself known to him at this obvious machination. Absently, he wondered what it would be like to enter into a gathering without his credentials preceding him.

He kept his face purposefully bland and unresponsive to the group before him. From the corner of his eye he noted, albeit unwillingly, an expression of barely concealed amusement on the face of the Miss Elizabeth in the form of slightly pursed lips and a tiny lift of finely arched brows.

His irritation spiked.

No doubt this country-bred slip of a girl and her fawning mother had already turned calculating eyes toward his and Bingley's fortunes. Neither respective sum could escape the notice of those anxiously awaiting the opportunity to put their daughters in the way of men with sufficient enough fortune to more than secure their future. And no one would turn away the chance to secure said future with ten thousand a year as opposed to five thousand. _After all, it would be far more expedient to secure the future of the entire family rather than one daughter alone_, Darcy thought bitterly. He learned to recognize the behavior after seeing it all too often in London society. The greater the fortune, the more mercenary their efforts became.

With Bingley was so clearly enamored of the eldest daughter, he feared Mrs. Bennet's thoughts would immediately turn to pairing himself with the second eldest.

_Elizabeth_, his mind supplied traitorously.

For reasons he could not explain, the niggling thread of this thought alone threatened to unravel what remained of his equanimity. Miserably, he watched as Bingley stepped forward to speak with the two sisters. To his continuing dismay, Caroline Bingley remained steadfastly by his side.

"How do you like it here in Hertfordshire, Mr. Bingley?" he heard _her_ ask, ignoring a small jump in his chest at the melodious sound of her voice.

"Very much," Bingley replied, smiling.

"The library at Netherfield, I've heard, is one of the finest in the country." _Her_ voice again. Another jump suppressed.

"Yes. It fills me with guilt. I'm not a very good reader, you see. I prefer being out of doors. Oh… I mean, I _can_ read, of course… And that's not to say you can't read out of doors… um," Charles faltered blushingly.

"I wish I read more, but there always seem to be so many other things to do," Miss Bennet provided.

"Yes! That's exactly what I meant," Charles breathed gratefully.

Caroline, who had been observing this exchange with an air of general boredom, suddenly saw fit to interrupt Darcy's contemplative state. "Charles gets so adorably flustered when taken with a new pretty face," she drawled with a coquettish smile. "Speaking of libraries, Mr. Darcy, your library at Pemberley is astonishingly good." He found the need to clear his throat before speaking.

"Thank you. It is the work of many generations."

"And then you have added so much to it yourself."

"Indeed I have. I thank you for your attentions to my book collection, Caroline," he said, hoping to close the topic. He could well imagine her desire to be elsewhere nearly rivaled his own, though for undoubtedly different reasons, but he found himself unequal to the task of sharing this commiseration with her verbally. Fortunately, she didn't seem to notice but instead appeared to find a modicum of comfort in the supposition that she and Darcy were of a like mind as to the inferiority of this particular gathering.

No indeed. Had Miss Bingley been privy to Darcy's thoughts at that moment, her response would have been quite unpredictable. Shock mostly certainly would dominate had she known Darcy had already repeatedly pushed from his mind various unseemly scenarios from his dreams supplanting Miss Elizabeth Bennet in the place of his mystery woman. (Something he would continue to do frequently throughout the evening.) Miss Bingley, of course, would be shocked in general not only by the existence of the mystery woman, but also that Mr. Darcy had dreams of any kind, let alone those of an unseemly nature. (Miss Bingley herself happened to be inclined to slumber so deeply as to cause more than one chambermaid to believe her to have expired in sleep.) Jealously would likely follow closely the moment she realized his thoughts, unseemly or otherwise, had nothing to do with herself.

Thankfully for all involved, no one in present company yet claimed the ability to divine others' thoughts.

For his part, Darcy had resolved to bestow no young lady with any attention at all regardless of her resemblance to ephemeral dream people. Redoubling his efforts to maintain his mask of indifference took enough of his concentration that he almost missed Bingley claiming the next dance with Miss Bennet. Suddenly, Miss Elizabeth was standing next to him, looking on as Bingley and her sister maneuvered through the crowd to await the beginning of the next dance. As the music started, she turned to him.

"Do you dance, Mr. Darcy?" she inquired brightly.

"Not if I can help it," he replied tersely, without looking at her. From the edge of his vision, he saw her turn, a befuddled expression upon her face. She appeared at a loss as to how to further the conversation and soon turned and walked away.

Regret quickly filled him. _It's just as well_, he told himself sternly. Surely she did not expect him to honor her with a dance. Even if she had, it was better he make his intentions known now that he would not be a participant in the night's revelry but merely an observer.

_That's no cause to be a rude_, the traitorous inner voice muttered. As it seemed his current lot to ignore things, he eagerly turned his thoughts to other matters.

"We are a long way from Grovsner Square, are we not, Mr. Darcy?" Caroline remarked, her lip practically curling in distaste. He gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head, following her eyes to where two young girls chatted and giggled boisterously with Mrs. Bennet. "The youngest Miss Bennets I presume," she indicated with a dainty roll of her eyes. Even from some distance, they could hear both girls expressing their continuous and very loud delight in the news that Meryton would very soon host a group of militia officers.

Darcy's frown deepened at their behavior but still he gave no reply. A feeling of disquiet still possessed him after his interaction with Miss Elizabeth and he thought it best to hold his tongue lest he risk displaying his altered condition. Nothing but a period of quiet solitude would restore his peace of mind. Unfortunately, such moments were sure to be lacking until their return to Netherfield, which he was beginning to feel could not come too soon.

Presently, the dance in which Bingley was paired with Jane Bennet came to an end. Darcy had arrived at the number four after attempting to distract himself by counting the number of times Bingley nearly lost track of his steps because of his attention to the lady. Now, Charles made a mad dash in Darcy's direction, no doubt seeking a confidant in his newest interest and a soothing balm to his nerves.

The rest of the crowd broke into small conversational groups whilst the musicians took a moment to avail themselves of refreshment. The pronounced hush in talk immediately surrounding Darcy gave him the peculiar feeling that he had become a topic of discussion. Rather than standing idly in the face of such scrutiny, he took the chance to stretch his legs, as he was still determined to refrain from any other physical activity. As it happened, he met Bingley halfway across the room in front of a line of staggered wooden seating. Vaguely, he realized he'd lost sight of Miss Elizabeth in the interim.

"I've never seen so many pretty girls in my life," Bingley proclaimed without preamble. Darcy briefly considered telling him to have his vision inspected, but decided against the idea.

"You were dancing with the only handsome girl in the room," he said instead. The words tasted strangely of falsehood even as they left his lips. A hollow sensation akin to disloyalty filled the pit of his stomach. He quickly dismissed it as nothing more than hunger.

"She is the most beautiful creature I have ever beheld!" Bingley's eyes lit up with his smile. "But her sister Elizabeth is very agreeable, too," he added rather hastily. Darcy struggled not to make a face. He had certainly expected Mrs. Bennet, possibly even Elizabeth herself, would imagine a natural pairing of the two of them, but not Bingley. _But where there are young ladies unattached, there are visions of matrimony dancing in their heads_, he mused crossly.

"Perfectly tolerable, I dare say," he finally allowed. A familiar void crept into his abdomen. "But not handsome enough to tempt me. Return to your partner and enjoy her smiles. You're wasting your time with me." Bingley appeared to have barely heard him, turning away with a faintly thankful look, already distracted by the pursuit of Miss Bennet.

Darcy felt oddly disappointed Charles didn't try harder to win his participation. Usually, he worked for the better part of an hour to get Darcy to merely socialize if not ask a lady to dance. Perhaps Bingley finally understood that in such a setting, Darcy could ill afford to display any interest in even the smallest connection with any of the ladies present. Such an attachment would be an affront to his family name.

Still, it was something of a standing tradition between the two friends. Even before they had set out from Netherfield, Bingley had made sure to reference a second time the expected surplus of young ladies. Darcy had fully anticipated having to parry Bingley's encouragements throughout the night, citing his customary dislike of dancing. It seemed Charles was more taken with Miss Bennet than he previously believed. He resolved to keep a closer eye on the situation lest his friend develop an unequal or unsuitable regard for her.

Never mind that such activity would also divert his mind from other occupation.

Slowly, he made a circuit of the room, eventually coming back to his former position near the large fireplace. As he came to a stop, a flash of deep green crossed his vision. Purposefully, he averted his eyes, hardly noticing her progress across the floor nor her acceptance of an invitation issued by a stout young man with curly brown hair. Her enthusiasm in this acceptance also escaped his notice, as did her ease of movement once the dance began.

He laid the blame squarely at the feet of her unusual color of dress every time his eyes were drawn to her. _Does no one else in the whole of Meryton wear green?_ he wondered irritably.

Bingley had this time partnered with Charlotte Lucas, as Miss Bennet had evidently already promised this set to another partner. Though Charles seemed to be enjoying himself nonetheless, Darcy noticed his attention, when not on the movements of the dance, quite frequently strayed to the other lady. He noted, too, that Miss Elizabeth was also conscious of Bingley's distraction and took delight in it. Again, Darcy tore his eyes away from her, admonishing himself firmly.

A few minutes later, a sound rang out, carrying across the room with more volume than he would have thought possible; a sound which gave him an impossible sense of familiarity though he had never truthfully heard its likeness.

Over the din of music and conversation came a musical peel of tinkling laughter so full of vivacity and mirth he knew an uncharacteristic desire join in. It brought feelings of intense intimacy such as made him flush with embarrassment as though the whole room was privy to his plight. His mind filled with an enticing picture of brown eyes closing on a sigh of pleasure. And he knew without looking from whom the laughter came.

Focusing his eyes on the far wall, he waited for the tension his is stomach to subside. Unbidden, memories of a salacious bent assailed him one after another. The dam he spent the evening constructing broke in fiery splendor. The softness of her lips; her fingers kneading his bare skin; the throaty hum she made when he entered her; these and more systematically entered his mind and were firmly pushed away.

This went on for some minutes until Darcy found himself in a state of mortified arousal for the second time that day. Once again, his body seemed determined to act against him. For the first time in his life, he felt immense gratitude for the surrounding crowd that prevented his person from being scrutinized too closely. He was also thankful for the double layering of fabric that constructed the front of his breeches.

Fortunately for poor Darcy, the dance was an unruly and lively thing and no one much noticed his concern. Not even Miss Bingley, who had taken herself toward the refreshment table, was aware he was out of sorts. (No doubt this was only undertaken so she could later make snide comments about the available offerings.)

For nearly ten minutes, Darcy distracted himself with thoughts of cold weather, cold water, his Aunt Catherine, even the debacle at Ramsgate involving his sister (a subject he avoided at nearly any cost) until his blood had cooled sufficiently enough for him to feel less exposed.

As the dance came to an end, Darcy finally recovered and made his way haltingly through the milieu toward Bingley. He intended to tell his friend that he had a sudden headache and wished to leave immediately after the next dance. His previous resolution to not use illness as an excuse was quite forgotten. Hesitant though he was to cut the evening short for Charles, he desired greatly to be away from the apparent incarnation of the woman from his dreams.

Once again, however, fate had other plans, this time choosing to intervene in the form of the prodigiously civil Mrs. Bennet. The instant the dance was ended, she pounced upon Bingley, effusive in her praise of both his and Jane's dancing ability. As Darcy drew close, the group grew to include the very woman he least desired to see.

"Your friend Miss Lucas is a most amusing young woman," Bingley was saying to her.

"Oh, yes! I adore her," Elizabeth returned with genuine feeling. Darcy tried not to look at her mouth as she spoke.

"It is a pity she's not more handsome," Mrs. Bennet observed abruptly, afraid Bingley's comment implied a danger to his preference for Jane. Bingley himself appeared entirely taken aback at hearing such a criticism stated so blatantly.

"Mama!" Elizabeth said in warning, attempting to communicate with her eyes the impropriety of further remarks.

"Oh, not that Lizzie would ever admit that she's plain," Mrs. Bennet continued heedlessly. "Of course, it is my Jane who's considered the beauty of the county."

"No, Mama—Mama, please!" Jane put in, thoroughly embarrassed by her mothers immodesty. A faint stain colored her cheeks becomingly and her mother spoke over her, not to be stopped.

"When she was but fifteen, a gentleman was so much in love with her, I was sure he would make her an offer. However… he did write her some very pretty verses—"

"—And that put paid to it," Elizabeth jumped in impatiently, placing a hand on her mothers arm to stay her. Clearly, she had been awaiting the opportunity to end her sister's mortification. "I wonder who first discovered the power of poetry in driving away love."

"I thought that poetry was the food of love." Darcy responded without thinking, nearly starting at the sound of his own voice. He hadn't set out to speak at all, especially not to the one person hounding his thoughts and certainly not in a conversation concerning love, of all things.

"Of a fine, stout love it may. But I am convinced if it is but a vague inclination, one poor sonnet will kill it stone dead," she replied without hesitation with a sly twinkle in her eyes. His narrowed on her, even as he became conscious that the others' eyes were trained on the two of them as they volleyed to and fro.

"So what do you recommend to encourage affection?" he wondered, unable to hold her frank gaze. His eyes flickered away from hers. Before he realized what he was asking, her reply was upon him.

"Dancing. Even if one's partner is barely tolerable."

A feeling of cold swept through him. She held his stare pointedly, far longer than propriety deemed appropriate, then curtseyed slowly, turned on her heel and walked away.

Frozen in place, he stared after her. After a moment, he realized his mouth was open slightly and shut it with an audible click. _It's not possible_, he thought desperately. He was sure she'd been nowhere near when he made that ill-humored remark. How did she know? How had she heard? Somehow she knew the exact word he had earlier used to describe her to Bingley.

For all his cold exterior, Darcy next felt the hot flush of shame throughout his body as she increased the distance between them. He watched her retreating back, as she continued to the other end of the room and through the double doors without so much as a hitch in her stride.

Not since he was a student had he cause to feel so thoroughly set down in conversation. He was far more accustomed to the role of instigator rather than recipient of such an exchange. How dare she presume to scold him in such a public venue? His behavior may not have been entirely above reproach, but she need not draw attention to the fact.

After a time, Darcy realized the next dance was starting around him and was once again faintly thankful for the crushing throng that prevented his strange behavior from drawing undue attention. His legs felt leaden as he made his way to the side blindly. A small part of him wanted to follow her, thought whether to apologize or rail at her he wasn't sure. As long as he remained surrounded by people he knew there would be no end to his inner chaos. He prayed Bingley's successful evening would make him amenable to leaving as soon as may be.

For Darcy, a swift end to this miserable outing would be his only salvation.

It was not until much later that Darcy was able to appreciate how astutely Elizabeth had dealt with the situation. He would even come two wonder if she realized it herself at the time, for he would have much cause to reflect on the specific night of the Meryton Assembly time and again from that point on.

Not only had she revealed her knowledge of his private comment referencing her _tolerability_, but she had also displayed, on the surface, near perfect indifference as to his opinion of her. Despite his resulting anger at her impertinence, no one but Bingley would actually understand the significance of her remark, and he was far too besotted with her older sister to notice. Instead she had drawn only his attention to his misconduct in such a way as to make further comment on his part all but impossible. Her obvious wit and quickness of mind took him completely by surprise.

Though an inauspicious beginning, he would later count it among the most interesting tales of his life.


	4. Or Not to Be

The morning after the assembly saw Mr. Darcy in a far gentler fame of mind than he rightfully expected. He attributed this welcome change to a full night of restful sleep, rather than the peculiar absence of a certain nighttime tableau.

The previous day had been quite emotionally exhaustive, after all.

Whatever the reason, he felt a certain lightness in his being that had been absent for some time. He rose at his usual hour to heavy skies that promised rain before the day's end. Though he planned to ride, he was surprised to find that the foreboding weather did little in the way of dimming his brightened mien.

First to the breakfast room, Darcy selected his meal with care and sipped his coffee slowly, anxious that nothing intrude too abruptly upon his tranquility. That he'd been waiting for such a moment to reflect upon the previous evening was quite conveniently forgotten. It was as though his body was finally returned to full health after a long convalescence. Even the clarity of his mind felt sharper, more orderly and calm. The food tasted somehow fuller, more potent to his palette.

If Darcy chose not to inspect the true impetus for this marked change, one must forgive him at this juncture. In any case, he hardly would have found the answer to his liking.

He passed a pleasant half hour of solitude and had just begun reading the paper when Bingley entered, looking slightly harried. For a moment, he didn't acknowledge Darcy's presence.

"Ah…Good morning, Darcy," he muttered, pulling at his cravat. "It looks like rain." Darcy nodded his acknowledgement, following Bingley with his eyes as the younger man paced the sideboard. Finally, he took up a plate and filled it at random with quick, agitated movements.

Darcy waited.

After some more pacing, Bingley situated himself across the table and set about cutting a piece of ham into small bites. Darcy raised his brows slightly in amusement, still perusing the paper. Bingley's unwitting display belied a great under-current of anxiety about which Darcy expected Charles would eventually speak. He doubted whether Bingley knew how clearly matters weighing on his mind were typically conveyed in the tension of his person.

Similarly, he anticipated the source of worry was a certain flaxen-haired maiden. Bingley appeared very serious in his consideration of this one. Once again, Darcy felt the importance of continuing to keep an eye on the situation.

"Darcy," he said after a few minutes spent pushing food around. "I wonder, would it be unseemly for me to call at Longbourn today? Or perhaps invite Miss Bennet to dine here this evening?" Darcy paused, torn between indulging a possibly harmless flirtation and facilitating a potentially imprudent match.

"Oh, Charles," a voice said from the door, having heard his question. "How soon you forget. I believe you already committed yourself and Mr. Darcy to dine in the village tonight though why you should wish to do so, I cannot imagine." Caroline swung gracefully into the room and perched at the table with a flourish. "And you mustn't appear too eager."

"Too eager?" he repeated, clearly concerned he'd done the very thing.

"What if," his sister spoke as though to a child, "I invited her here to dine with me? She does seem to be a sweet girl, even if she does smile a bit too much. I should like to know her better." She blinked innocently at him.

Darcy frowned, thinking it far more likely Caroline desire information rather than companionship, but held his tongue. Bingley still appeared uncertain.

"Do you not think she may find it strange to dine here if I am out?" His brow furrowed.

"Nonsense. She will merely think you wish her to know your dear sister better. It's perfectly true, is it not? Do not fret so, Dear Brother, all will be well," she soothed.

Darcy's frown deepened. At times, it mystified him how Bingley failed to recognize the manipulations of others. He continually expected no less than the best of intentions in everyone he encountered. But Darcy hesitated to interfere in any schemes set forth by Caroline Bingley lest she mistake his interest in the matter for a different reason.

"Yes, I suppose you're right," he sighed faintly, looking to Darcy.

"Caroline is well equipped to entertain Miss Bennet in your stead, Charles," Darcy said. Caroline lowered her eyes modestly at the small compliment. "We agreed to dine with Colonel Forster some time ago. We cannot break the engagement now for so trivial a reason. I'm sure there will be ample opportunity to meet Miss Bennet again." Bingley acquiesced, though still appeared crestfallen.

Caroline shot Darcy a look of mute exasperation over her brother's obvious infatuation. Darcy showed no reaction, but could hardly lament the absence of someone who would naturally remind him of _her_.

"Very well, Charles. If it will ease your mind, I will tell you that I anticipated your agreement of our plan," Caroline sighed after a short pause. She snapped her fingers at one of the hovering servants, causing Darcy to blink in surprise. "Have one of the maids bring me the letter on the silver tray in my dressing room," she ordered brusquely.

As they waited, Bingley began to eat slowly but still seemed troubled by his perception of what Caroline so generously referred to as _their_ plain. Within five minutes, Caroline had in her hand a short missive that she then handed to Bingley for his perusal. Dictates of propriety forbade a single man from sending private correspondence to a single woman, but indirect means of communication were commonly employed as a means of circumventing this restriction.

Bingley's eyes traveled over the written words and presently, a smile spread slowly across his features and he looked gratefully at his sister. "Oh, thank you, Caroline," he grinned at last, looking more like himself. "I'm sure this will suffice."

Darcy carefully attended his newspaper, wondering again what game Caroline had undertaken in inviting Miss Bennet to Netherfield. After her reflections during the assembly, he was very sure she shared his evaluation of the Bennet family in general as being too far beneath their level of society for the promotion of the daughters as viable matches. Perhaps he had missed something in Caroline's interaction with Miss Bennet last night. It was true his attention had been compromised by the consideration of … other matters.

With a sigh, he realized the presence of a physical reminder was unnecessary if he insisted on dwelling upon the thing himself. Suddenly, the morning's tranquility faded to dust. He felt seized with restless energy, the pent up frustration of yesterday coming belatedly to the fore.

"If you will both excuse me, I have some correspondence to attend to," he stated. With a curt bow, he quit the room.

The turn in the weather meant their tour of Netherfield would once again be delayed and another day spent inside in idle occupation held little appeal to him. Nevertheless, he dedicated the morning to several letters and papers from Pemberley that demanded his attention. The socialization that had been demanded by their arrival to the neighborhood had delayed his responsibilities. As was his habit, he was thorough and meticulous as he wrote of instructions and news to various parties. Though Bingley and Caroline eventually joined him in the library where he worked, he spoke to them little until they all retired together for refreshment shortly after noon.

Though the silence of his presence was nothing new to his present companions, they could hardly have guessed the growing disquiet of his inner thoughts. Without the employment of business to occupy his mind, he found himself going over each word spoken by Miss Elizabeth the previous night, trying to determine her motives.

More than once, he ruminated upon the moment when he heard her laugh and the intense emotion that had overtaken him at the sound. How could her presence affect him so powerfully? He came to the conclusion that his sleep must have been accompanied by dreams that he simply could not recall once he awoke. He could find no other earthly reason why thoughts of _her_ intruded once again on a perfectly innocuous day.

At this frustration, his earlier restlessness made itself known again. Without a word, he pushed back from his work and stood, motioning quietly to a servant. He gave instructions to have his mount prepared and then announced his intentions to the Bingleys.

"But, sir," Caroline purred, "Surely you must not. If you were to get caught in a downpour you could catch your death. Perhaps your ride could wait until dryer conditions?"

"I thank you for your concern, Caroline. I don't intend to stay out long and there are plenty of trees to provide shelter."

"Shall I accompany you, Darcy?" Charles roused himself from the absent-minded trance in which he'd lingered periodically throughout the morning.

"No, I thank you," Darcy answered a bit too quickly, for he was anxious to be alone. "I'll return in time to accompany you to the village."

In truth, he needed nothing so simple as a blinding rush through the countryside with only his horse for company. He dearly wished for the familiar rise and fall of Derbyshire's landscape where his stallion Admiral required little if any guidance so acclimated to the terrain was he.

If he were riding there, he wouldn't have to think at all.

Briefly, he returned to his rooms to don more appropriate attire and an oilcloth overcoat in deference to the infinitesimal chance Miss Bingley's dire prediction came true. Inside of ten minutes, he was entering the stable and was pleased to see Admiral saddled and waiting as per his instruction. As he approached, the horsed whickered softly in recognition.

"How are you, old boy?" Darcy murmured, running his hand down the animal's soft nose. From his pocket, he drew an apple core and held it out on the flat of his palm. Admiral lipped it delicately and then nudged Darcy's shoulder in affection.

As he mounted, another distant rumble of thunder came to his ears. The same had been happening all morning and he prayed it would hold off long enough for a decent ride. He feared his mood would be tarnished irrevocably if he were denied this short stretch away from burden and worry. Luckily, Admiral was not afraid of storms.

He warmed the horse slowly against the slight chill in the air though he longed for the mindless sprint of a gallop. It would not do for the Master of Pemberley to get caught in the rain, fall ill, _and_ cause injury to his own horse. Not that any one disaster was really better than the occurrence all three. He considered his horses almost as members of family and Admiral was a particular favorite. He almost never rode any other mount.

When Darcy was but eight years old, his father brought a stallion to Pemberley with an illustrious bloodline from Spain. The horse was said to be the descendent of Andalucian destriers used by conquistadors led by Ponce de Leon, and was to enrich the stock of Pemberley by disseminating amongst several mares, including Darcy's mother's favorite horse, Ambrosia.

As young Darcy watched Ambrosia's belly grow, his father told him the foal, should it be male, would become his horse. Should it be female, she would be added to the brood stock and Darcy would have his choice of any other colt amongst the other yearlings.

He remembered watching Ambrosia graze delicately in the pasture, dreaming of the adventures he and his horse would embark upon once he was born. On one particular occasion, his father came up beside him, apparently having sought out his company though he rarely did so.

"Look closely," he father said in hushed tones. "Look very closely at her flank just in front of the hip. Do you see that small movement there? That is the foal moving within her." It was an uncharacteristically tender moment between them and Darcy felt honored to have shared it with his father.

When the foal was birthed, Darcy was allowed into the barn to bear witness. He watched in terrified awe as Ambrosia paced her stall before finally laying down. The colt came out in a rush of fluids, encased in a milky white birth sack. He struggled free from the membrane as his mother roused herself to begin cleaning him. Within minutes, the solid black colt was attempting to stand upon legs so thin and spindly, Darcy worried they would snap like dry kindling. He'd never seen a horse so small. When he expressed his concern to the head groom, a man called Deems, he was met with an amused chuckle and a patient lesson on the duties he would assume now the horse was born.

Darcy also remembered wondering why his father showed no interest in continuing to lead him in this right of passage.

Darcy's mother insisted he should be the one to name the foal despite his father's grumbling that a child would be too inclined to silly or foolish titles. In the end, he reserved the right to change the horse's name if such frivolity came to pass. Darcy, being at the time harboring a secret desire to sail the high seas, arrived at the name Admiral with the intention that it would honor both his mother, Anne, and Admiral's mother, Ambrosia, in the use of the names' first letter, and would provide proper dignity once the horse was grown. His father agreed to the name.

Everyday for months, Darcy rushed to the stable after his lessons and spent time with the two under Deems's watchful eye, approaching slowly by increments until they both trusted him. He would talk to Admiral for hours about whatever came to mind. Gradually, he began teaching Admiral to follow on a rope lead and get used to the weight of a saddle upon his back. When the horse was old enough, he and Deems worked to break him. By the time of Lady Anne's death, Darcy was an accomplished rider and never rode any horse but Admiral, who grew to stand a full sixteen hands. (This was fortunate, since Darcy at twelve was clearly bound to achieve greater stature than most men once he was of age.)

Eventually, Admiral came to mean much more to Darcy than the usual attachment of a possession or even a pet. Admiral represented the last meaningful gift his father would ever give him for after the death of his wife, little pleased him except for the occasional obsequious company of George Wickham. While he knew the elder Darcy loved him, the expression of that emotion was rarely undertaken before Lady Anne passed, and never afterward until his own death. Darcy favored his father physically, but was more in temperament like his mother, an unfortunate happenstance that failed to promote the bridging of the cleft that came between father and son.

Admiral and Ambrosia were the only living creatures to behold the tears the boy shed the day his mother died and Admiral alone when, some years later, the elder Darcy passed away.

By the time Darcy had ridden a reasonable distance from the house, he was in an open expanse of field that ran alongside the road to the village. He urged Admiral into a canter, then a full run until they approached a low fence they cleared easily. Darcy lost track of time, focusing only on the movement of the horse beneath him and the possible perils of the ground in front of them. At last, they came to a small stream that cut across the road and flowed into a small lake. At their noisy approach, a flock of geese were startled from its surface and took flight. Darcy pulled up, easing the pace down to a walk, dismounting to give the horse a chance to water before their return. The rumbles of thunder had increased their frequency.

He rolled up the sleeves of his overcoat and crouched at the edge, dipping his hands in the cool water. As he splashed the handful over his face and neck, he was halted by the sudden realization that he wasn't alone. Across the water came the sound of a feminine voice humming a simple tune. He half rose, expecting to see a housemaid gathering berries amongst the nearby bushes or rushes along the bank. Though normally not one for covert observation, he espied a young woman in a dark blue dress trailing her hand along the wide trunk of a tree as she sang. He recognized the melody from a piece of music from the previous night's entertainment. Her hands were slender and long fingered, tracing lightly over the textured bark as though to memorize its surface. The pale stretch of her neck above the plain gown arched elegantly upward, her hair bound in an equally uncomplicated braided bun. As he watched, she tipped her head back, looking thru the branches to the top of the tree. Then, with a deep sigh of contentment, she resumed her song and turned.

It was her. Elizabeth—that is, Miss Elizabeth. Elizabeth Bennet—_her_.

Abruptly, Darcy bit back an oath and hurriedly resumed his crouch behind the reeds. As he did, he overbalanced precariously on the balls of his feet and nearly fell forward into the water. Through the reed's slender stalks, he saw she didn't seem to have detected his presence. She continued humming, and thankfully resumed her circling of the tree. When she reached the far side, he moved swiftly, concealing himself behind the tree nearest him. Admiral, surprised by this movement and apparently possessing a sense of irony his master did not, took a few steps toward him, stepping upon a dry twig that cracked loudly in the process.

Darcy glared at him, fully aware of the ridiculous position he now occupied, hiding from a mere girl he had no reason to fear.

The humming stopped and for a moment there was silence. Obviously, Admiral's misstep had drawn her attention.

"Is someone there?" She paused. "Lydia? Kitty? I've told you before, it's not amusing to sneak up on people." Her footsteps stopped. She apparently couldn't see Admiral from where she stood but thought her sisters were playing a trick on her. He dared not breathe with the relief he felt. Of course Admiral, completely unaware of his misdeed, resumed grazing quietly nearby.

Darcy began frantically considering any justification that might allow him to retain some dignity should she discovered him. Really, he prayed that some intervention would prevent her from discovering him at all. Yet, he refused to be caught totally unawares and quickly moved from behind the tree to kneel in a shrubbery whose branches were spaced enough to see through.

As he watched, she made a small sound of dismissal and leaned back against the tree, having decided she was, indeed, alone. Idly, she reached up among the low hanging branches and plucked loose a large leaf, which she then twirled between her fingers. Suddenly, she smiled and spoke, affecting an unnaturally deep tone.

"Perfectly tolerable," she said. "But not handsome enough to tempt me." His eyes widened. She was thinking of him! Granted, she was thinking of him with mocking amusement, but thinking of him even so. He felt the shock through his entire body.

She continued twirling the leaf, watching it intently. Then, abruptly, a wide smile broke out on her face and she laughed gaily and tossed the leaf into the water. Just as abruptly, the shock he'd been feeling turned into a strong sense of something he would later identify as hurt.

Suddenly, the light seemed to brighten, causing them both to look skyward as the sun peeked through a break in the clouds. A visible shaft of light pierced the gloom, filling the glade surrounding Elizabeth with a gentle heat. With another sigh, she tilted her head back again, closing her eyes to take in the warmth.

Despite his earlier offense, he couldn't have guessed how long he was lost to the intoxication of witnessing her obvious joy in the simple comfort of a ray of sunshine.

"Lizzie!" The distant call jarred them both from the reverie. "Lizzie, where are you?" Darcy blinked, recognizing the strident tones of Mrs. Bennet. With an affectionate roll of her eyes, Elizabeth lifted her skirts and began to run along the bank of the lake in the opposite direction. Quite unintentionally, Darcy witnessed a glimpse of her bare leg above the top of her boots that stirred improper warmth in his blood.

As she passed from his view, Darcy stood. Through the trees, he could just make out the shape of a structure in the distance he hadn't seen before. _So this is Longbourn_, he thought wryly. He'd ridden farther than he intended.

Finally breathing easier, he took Admiral's reins but was unable to consider returning to Netherfield for several minutes. Still greatly disturbed by his starkly dissimilar reactions to Elizabeth, he lingered by the lake for some time, trying to convince himself he had no investment in her whatsoever.

* * *

><p>"Mr. Darcy," a commanding voice called from across the table. His head came up sharply. "Am I given to understand you are related to Colonel Fitzwilliam?" Darcy took a sip of wine to cover his inattentiveness.<p>

"Yes, he is a first cousin on my mother's side," he managed after a moment. The sudden interest took him by surprise. "He is the second son of the Earl of Matlock who is my late mother's brother."

"Do you know him well?" Colonel Forster looked at him expectantly.

"Very well. We played often together as boys and I meet him frequently in matters of business and family when his schedule allows it," Darcy said. He was further surprised at the level of the Colonel's inquiry and hoped he would stop there. The fact that some of his dealing with Fitzwilliam included their joint guardianship of Georgiana was not something he shared readily and he knew little of Fitzwilliam's responsibilities when it came to his military service.

"Capital young man, Fitzwilliam," Forster intoned pedantically. "Yes—I believe I met him briefly in London during a recent training summit. Very, very competent in his work, indeed."

"I thank you, I will pass along the compliment," Darcy said mildly. With that, Forster's attention fell to the man at Darcy's right, sparing him from further inane questioning. Oddly enough, this was nearly the extent to which Darcy had been required to speak so far that evening.

Despite the absence of the actual militia, which would in fact arrive the next day, Colonel Forster had taken up residence in Meryton with several of his higher-ranking officers. Determined to get a sense of the neighboring custom and community, he set up something of an informal gentlemen's club in the public meetinghouse and invited members of the local gentry to dine with him. The rest of the men were slated to arrive in state the next morning and would march into town from the newly constructed barracks in a large parade encompassing the whole village.

After his return to Netherfield, Darcy had barely had time to make himself presentable before he and Charles boarded the carriage for the trip into town. Bingley, still caught up in his thoughts of Miss Bennet, spoke barely a word during the trip, a loss that bothered Darcy not a whit as he too had a Bennet family member to think on, though with distinctly different sentiments involved.

Lost in thought, he'd allowed Admiral to return to Netherfield at a walk, arriving just before the skies finally opened up. He once again found his thoughts and emotions in disarray and was no closer to enjoying the sensation than he'd been at the assembly. In the wake of his secret observation of Elizabeth, he became steadily incensed at her indifference to him. For the first time he could recall, he felt the lack of that regard usually paid to one of his elevation. What could induce a girl whose circumstances were so lowered to turn her nose up at a single man of his affluence? Again, he felt the absurdity of his position, that he should be insulted by her lack of attention when he'd never felt the injury of such concerns in the past, especially when it came to women. That she also scoffed at his behavior was another mark against her in his books. Most people had the good grace to at least be conscious, if not offended by his immense self-possession and sense of superiority. _But not Elizabeth_, he thought darkly. _She apparently feels secure enough in her independence that she need not follow society's mandates for proper behavior. She's probably as bad as the rest of her family._

On that score he had to check himself, however. Except in a moment of private reflection she could not know he witnessed, she hadn't yet shown any real lack of propriety he felt bound to criticize. If anything, she displayed a greater understanding than her own mother and younger sisters, which was to be commended.

Elizabeth and Jane at least, seemed to have some good judgment.

He continued contemplating his dilemma up until the time that he and Bingley arrived in Meryton. He did his best to be somewhat sociable with the other gentlemen, finding that several of the officers hailed from regions near Derbyshire he was familiar with. Their conversation, though less sophisticated than he was used to, couldn't be described as poor. As the evening wore on, however, he found their company became somewhat tedious. Often, he found his mind straying again to subjects he would rather avoid.

After dinner, he joined the rest in several games of billiards and then cards. Though Bingley was amiable as always, Darcy noticed a delay in his replies and a distant look in his eye on occasion that suggested his mind too strayed elsewhere. By the end of the night, they both felt relieved to be arriving back at Netherfield and hence to retire to their respective rooms.

As the carriage pulled up in the drive, it soon became clear that their relief was to be short lived. The steward, Mr. Myles, came out to meet them, an unusual occurrence to be sure. As Bingley had yet to decide whether he would fill out the house staff with a regular butler, Mr. Myles was kindly fulfilling both rolls for the time being.

_What is it now?_ Darcy wondered. His life, it seemed, was doomed to a course of one conflict after another of late.

Once they had gained their footing, Mr. Myles bowed and gave them reason to understand that during the heavy rain of the afternoon, Miss Bennet had journeyed to Netherfield on horseback. She had become so saturated and chilled that almost directly after her arrival, she took ill with a fierce cold and had to be ensconced in one of the guest rooms for the night.

"Oh, no!" Bingley exclaimed. "Taken ill? Oh dear, I shall never forgive myself. I ought to have sent the carriage to collect her."

In the drawing room, Bingley paced mightily, as stormy an expression on his face as any Darcy had ever seen. He wondered allowed several times if he ought to check on Miss Bennet personally, a plan Darcy heartily vetoed as it would be improper for a gentlemen to visit her rooms with only a maid as chaperone. Bingley acquiesced, but couldn't settle himself. He alternately walked the length of the room, stood at the fireplace watching the flames pensively, and sat down only to jump up and resume his pattern over and over.

"I cannot imagine what possessed her mother, sending her out in such weather," Darcy grumbled after several rotations of this. Bingley nodded absently but made no reply, belatedly giving strict instructions to the staff as to how to attend to Miss Bennet's comfort and to wake him immediately if she needed something during the night.

More alarming still, was the incongruent behavior of Caroline, who had already retired before informing her brother of these events. It seemed her earlier eagerness to entertain Miss Bennet on behalf of her brother had faded after being forced to play hostess for longer than a few hours.


	5. Nothing Can Come

The instant Darcy exited his rooms the next morning, he found Bingley pacing the hallway anxiously.

"Darcy, there you are," he mumbled by way of greeting. "I wonder—that is, I've been trying to decide if… Well, do you think I ought to have a doctor tend to Miss Bennet?" Darcy stared at him, worried for his friend's sanity, for Bingley had all the appearance of a man possessed. His hair was even untidier than usual and he had yet to dress properly; he wore only a shirt, breeches and boots. His eyes were overly bright from lack of sleep and his hands clenched together until the knuckles turned white.

"Bingley, how long have you been awake? Have you eaten?" he asked suspiciously as Charles resumed wringing his hands.

"Hmm? Oh… Yes, I'll worry about that later. Right now, I'm concerned for Miss Bennet. Her maid tells me she's little improved this morning, though she was able to take some tea and bread. Mrs. Nichols tells me there's a physician in Meryton, a man called Dr. Green, who could likely see her today if I get word to him now…" He trailed off as a door down the hallway opened and a young maid approached them.

"Excuse me, um…. I-if you please, sir," the girl stuttered with a timid curtsey. She darted surreptitious glances at Darcy, clearly intimidated. He raised an eyebrow at her behavior. "Th-the lady, Miss Bennet… She asks if she could please trouble you to get this note to her family, sir." She held a folded piece of paper in a trembling hand.

"Oh, yes… Yes, certainly. Right away… Thank you, Susan." Bingley, thrilled at finally being allowed to help, took the letter gingerly as though it was apt to vanish in a puff of Jane-scented smoke. With a barely discernable "excuse me", he left Darcy staring after him, wondering if he meant to deliver the letter to Longbourn himself on foot.

Quite honestly, Darcy couldn't understand behaving so foolishly for the sake of a woman, particularly not one of Miss Bennet's caliber. True, her beauty could not be denied, but Bingley's bumbling hardly seemed warranted. She had a trifling cold but was hardly at death's door. Rather than the daughter of a country gentleman, Bingley acted as though the health of a Duchess hung in the balance. (Darcy's own ridiculous antics employed to hide behind foliage to avoid Elizabeth had, at present, slipped his mind.)

An hour later, Bingley was still absent from the breakfast room. Darcy, taking advantage of the extra space, spread his newspaper out on the table, barely listening to a comment from Miss Bingley over a letter she was reading. (Something to do with someone redecorating a ballroom in some manner, though why she believed Darcy deigned to keep current on such matters remained a mystery.) The door opened, emitting Mr. Myles; still Darcy kept is eyes down, reading an article about economic troubles in France.

"Miss Elizabeth Bennet," he announced with a bow. The name caught his attention and Darcy finally looked up, shock coursing through him. Somehow, the possibility of her coming here had not occurred to him. He guessed she and Jane were close but had obviously underestimated the strength of their bond. Now she was here, mostly likely to accept the inherent task of caring for her sister. _Her_. Elizabeth. Here. Here at Netherfield and about to walk in. _Oh, no_…

He was completely unprepared to face her and she was here.

Before he could even begin bringing his thoughts in order, Elizabeth entered the room and he forgot to breathe. Her eyes were slightly wary as she walked slowly to the center of the wall between the room's two large columns. He felt his mouth dry up as he took her in.

The length of her hair was mostly unbound. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a woman with her hair down other than his sister. Only the hair from the crown and sides of her head was gathered back. The rest hung soft and wavy, well below the shoulders of an old, dark overcoat. The color was nearly the same rich brown as her eyes, and he knew instinctively that it would smell of fresh air and flowers. Rosy color bloomed delicately across her cheeks, giving her skin an aching luminescence. She wore a subtle blue green dress that reminded him of morning fog. She looked like a child of nature itself, born of a beautifully fragile sunrise and the dusk of evening. He swallowed hard, noticing small white lace scalloping along the neckline of her dress and had a sudden vision of running his finger across the texture of it before taking in the supple skin beneath.

All this was followed by the immediate realization that he ought to stand and bow in acknowledgement of the introduction. As he did, his chair scuffed loudly on the floor and his boots clicked together. He resisted the impulse to wince at his blunder.

"Good Lord, Miss Elizabeth, did you walk here?" Carole inquired in a superior tone, clearly as shocked as he for what she would perceive as the impropriety of Elizabeth's appearance.

"I did," Elizabeth stated unashamedly. She waited, looking at the two of them expectantly. "I'm so sorry, how is my sister?"

"She's upstairs." Darcy answered quickly, feeling an inexplicable need for her to be away from him. Elizabeth looked at him in surprise, though whether she reacted because he spoke or the manner of his speech, he couldn't know.

"Thank you." She paused again as though expecting further intelligence, then gave a curtsey and left.

"My goodness, did you see her hem? Six-inches deep in mud! She looked positively medieval," Caroline drawled in contempt.

Darcy, on the other hand, could offer no such concise opinion on what transpired before them. That he was torn between a craving to lap at the cream of her skin like a cat and disgust at the same desire was hardly information to be shared with anyone, least of all Miss Bingley. Instead, he stood blinking in confusion, foremost in his mind the notion that he had missed the mark indeed, referring to Elizabeth as only _tolerable_.

"—wouldn't want your sister traipsing about the countryside on such an errand, I'm sure." Caroline, unaware of his agitation, continued her diatribe.

"No. Certainly not," he agreed quietly. _Of course, Georgiana has no sisters and is only sixteen_, he reflected absently. If she had an ill sister to care for, he imagined she would undertake the errand most determinedly. _And I would walk any distance in her place for much less_.

"Why, it must be at least three miles from here to any other house. What could she have been thinking? She wasn't fit to be seen, with her hair windblown and unkempt, never mind the mud." Caroline shook her head and returned to her letter, thereby ending her commentary on the matter. Darcy resumed his seat, giving her a puzzled glance.

"I imagine she was thinking of her sister," Darcy said, surprising himself. "Her concern does her credit." Caroline was incredulous, thoroughly taken aback but fortunately, chose not to question his strange defense of their new guest, though the look on her face suggested she found grave error in his reasoning. (Nothing, it seemed, would draw Caroline out of doors for an extended period of time and most definitely not on foot across three miles, not even the health of a loved one. Unless, perhaps, that loved one was gravely ill and very rich.)

Darcy made a show of returning to his paper, making his face blank and ignoring Caroline's piercing looks. He forced himself to behave as though nothing was amiss, that his mind and body weren't churning with conflicting thoughts and urges.

As he stared at the printed words before him, he pictured himself approaching Elizabeth, talking her shoulders in his hands and kissing her until she trembled. He would begin slowly so as not to scare her, then delve the depths of her mouth with his tongue. She would moan at the unexpected sensation, participating hesitantly at first until she clung to him willingly, her elegant hands tangling in his hair and around his neck. When she was weak in his arms, he would finally, finally taste her skin, beginning with her exquisite neck and ending with the smooth expanse of her chest just above the scalloped lace. He would run his hands through her hair and dip his fingers below the lace, teasing her breast until she begged him to take her. Then he would know she belonged to him...

The images formed rapidly before his eyes, imprinting themselves on the paper as though he looked through a window into one of his dreams. His head began to swim with disorientation and he swallowed the sudden pooling of saliva in his mouth. _I really must see a physician_, he though frantically. _Any physician… sooner rather than later_. Blinking his eyes back into focus, he forced his mind back to the piece on the problems in France.

At length, Bingley entered the room, breaking the spell that seemed to have gripped him. Darcy breathed slowly, trying to acknowledge his friend's approach without betraying his state. For his part, Bingley looked far more cheerful than he had earlier that morning.

"Thank goodness for Miss Elizabeth," he said with relief. "Miss Bennet already seems in better spirits. How fortunate that Longbourn is so close." He sat with a satisfied sigh and finally began partaking of the breakfast fare. He had apparently been at last allowed to see Miss Bennet with her sister as chaperone.

"How fortunate too that Miss Elizabeth possesses such an… independent nature," Caroline added, lifting a teacup to hide a duplicitous smile.

"Yes," Bingley agreed firmly, conscious of her hidden barb. "Fortunate indeed. I think her obvious concern for her sister is delightful. It shows great strength of character and a strong familial sense. Don't you agree, Darcy?"

Darcy considered his response, conscious that Bingley's sister watched him closely. "I suppose it does, though she could have just as easily come by carriage." Caroline made a noise of agreement, tacitly pleased with his dismissal of Elizabeth's method of travel.

"True, but from what I understand from Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth enjoys walking a great deal and does so nearly everyday when the weather is fine. I confess to no great surprise that she walked here. She and her sister are very close, I believe," Bingley explained while filling his plate. By this time, he was properly dressed and far more at ease. "And I, for one, was grateful to see her."

Before either party could reply, Mr. Myles returned, this time bearing several letters on a silver tray.

"One for Mr. Darcy and two for you, sir," he addressed Bingley directly.

"Here you are, Darcy—from Georgiana I think." Bingley handed him the parchment sealed with the Darcy crest in red wax.

He took it up eagerly, feeling relief on two fronts; first for brief deliverance from the usual anxiety he felt being away from his sister and the second for another diversion from thoughts of Elizabeth. It seemed well nigh impossible for him to find enough distraction lately and with the object of his distress in residence, he could forget about the maintenance of his piece of mind.

Excusing himself, he took the letter outside with him in the direction of Netherfield's flower garden. As he walked, he read of Georgiana's delight in a new piece of music and her satisfaction in the progress of a needlepoint project she'd worked on for some time. She spoke of her happiness of being in London to see the trees burn with autumn color and long walks in the park with her companion, Mrs. Annesley. During these walks, she often stopped to sketch the ducks and swans in the lily ponds, reveling in sight of spring babies losing their fuzz to turn into the sleek adults of the fall. He smiled, knowing full well that his sister's love of animals also encompassed the tadpoles, frogs, dragonflies and fish of the ponds themselves.

Though she had clearly moved beyond childhood lessons, she still studied with a tutor for French and German, and excelled in drawing and music. He was conscious that his little sister as growing to become a fine young woman, and the knowledge gave him both grief and joy. Grief that she moved passed the innocence of the young and joy for the brightness of her future.

Despite the difference in their ages, Darcy and his sister had always been close. Though the gap between them meant they would forever be in different phases in life, there was a connection between them that never faltered. He would never truly supplant his father's position for her, though he knew the relationship was more in that vein than that of brother and sister. Their bond was one forged in the loss of their parents even though the experience had different repercussions for each. Georgiana had no chance to know their mother, and lost their father when she was very young. Darcy was her most trusted confidant and friend, as well as guide and steward of her future. She shared her life with him readily, as he did with her, and never sought to keep him from knowing her most treasured secrets.

Except once.

Only once had circumstances unforeseen come between them in such a way that their bond was sorely tested. Only once had Georgiana conspired with another to keep something from him. Only once had he nearly lost her, but once was one time too many.

Love, he knew, could make fools of otherwise sensible men and women. Called the great equalizer, love was humbling and at the same time prideful, a source of both bliss and darkest sadness. From a young age, he understood there were different types of love from what he felt for his sister to what he knew of his father's love for both of them; rarely spoken of and generally taken for granted, but certain just the same. His father's love for their mother was of another type, one that had developed over years of marriage but hadn't been present in more than a minor sense of fondness at their wedding.

He came to know that men sought relief from the desires of physical love in the women of certain districts of London who sold their affection for a price. He was given to understand this kind of love was of a temporary and purely carnal variety, and should be sought only as a means of control over one's baser desires. Sometimes the same men also kept mistresses after they married because it was unbefitting for wives to inspire that kind of passion in them.

But there was yet another kind of love with which he had little experience. It was a kind usually seen in the men who did not keep mistresses, but married those women who invoked their passion. These men looked at their wives with such slavering devotion that others would titter behind their hands, calling them 'hen pecked'. This kind of love he little understood and couldn't help but doubt. Why would anyone put himself or herself so completely under another's power? It was illogical at best and humiliating at worst.

Nothing would have made him believe in it's true senselessness until his sister fell under the charm of George Wickham, as so many had before her.

Before his fall from grace, Georgiana and Wickham shared a connection much like hers with Darcy. Because Wickham was practically raised alongside them, she saw him as a brother figure and someone she respected and loved in that way. He remembered George devoting much time to entertaining her and both of them undertaking the task of making her laugh as often as possible. She was an adorable child and they would often play in the nursery with her until they developed the vanity of adolescence and sought other pursuits.

Though she was not in the habit of losing herself to flights of fancy like other girls her age, Georgiana was just as susceptible to the allure of flattery. And being far more familiar with her personality than other men, she was that much more susceptible to Wickham. In the tearful tale of what transpired before Darcy's arrival in Ramsgate, she told him that Wickham plied her with gifts and claimed to have seen her with new eyes, speaking of how much more beautiful she was than he remembered. As it had been some years since Wickham left Pemberley, and he said he now looked upon her as a woman instead of a child and made her feel giddy with his attentions. She had let him kiss her hand as a lover and wanted to believe he was genuine in his love.

Caught up in the romance of it all, she agreed to elope with him and allowed him to persuade her that her brother would forgive their hurry after he knew how much in love they were. The evening before they were to journey to Scotland with her current companion Mrs. Younge, Wickham came to her and began asking about the inheritance left to her by the elder Darcy, a sum of $30,000 pounds. Confused, but trusting him implicitly, Georgiana haltingly told him of the terms under which she would come into the money upon her twenty-fifth birthday or the event of her marriage, whichever came first. She alluded to a strict stipulation insisted upon by her father, a condition that meant the fortune was to remain under her and Darcy's control no matter who else came into the family. Wickham drew her back to this point and made her reiterate it several times.

Upon getting his clarification, Wickham became very still and quiet with his back turned to her. Had she been able to see his face, she would have been frightened by the dark rage that could be seen on it then. For Wickham knew what Georgiana did not. The falling out that had occurred between Darcy and he upon his refusal of the living left to him at Kympton (and subsequent demand of more funds) meant that Darcy would never trust him again, even if he believed Georgiana loved him. Darcy might allow for their sham of a marriage to continue if he believed Georgiana to be happy, but he would never allow Wickham to access the fortune at will. And the fortune was his true purpose.

It was a complication he hadn't been expecting and couldn't immediately determine how to make it work in his favor. And so, with a syrupy smile, he turned back to Georgiana and took his leave for the night, lingering over the tender goodbye with promises he would see her in the morning.

But morning came and George Wickham never returned.

Darcy had finished some business in London early and decided to surprise Georgiana in Ramsgate. When his carriage arrived, he was shocked to find Georgiana more distraught than he had ever seen her. For over an hour, he pleaded with her to reveal the source of her distress, even appealing to Mrs. Younge, who pretended innocence. Finally, after many reassurances that he would not be angry, Georgiana let loose the entire story up to and including the conversation about the money that she now feared must have been the turning point in Wickham's courtship.

Despite his promise, he was furious upon hearing of the planned elopement, but made himself take her into his arms, letting her cry out her misfortune until she fell asleep. Though he was hurt by her inability to trust him, the brunt of his anger was for Wickham.

Still unaware of Mrs. Younge's complicity in the events, he left her with his sister to seek out the inn where Georgiana said Wickham had been staying. He found the man's room emptied of all belongings, (including some that did not belong to him) leaving no trace of his presence. The innkeeper said he'd been awaiting the earliest morning coach since shortly after midnight in the inn's public room, and had become more and more drunk as the night progressed. Then he began rambling about how he'd convinced a young lady of wealth to fall in love with him but had been misled by her caretaker into believing he would come into money if he married her. He boasted about the luck of his escape from being married to such a fool. (He had also told the innkeeper his bill had already been paid in full through the man's assistant and to confirm this in the morning. By the time the innkeeper realized this was a falsehood, Wickham was long gone.)

And thus, Darcy returned to his sister as fast as possible, having correctly surmised that Wickham had been referring to Mrs. Young.

Though the woman first tried to deny her knowledge of Wickham's true intent and her role in the snaring of Georgiana's heart, the force of Darcy's fury impressed upon her the lengths to which he would go in getting the truth. Even after she admitted she was guilty, Darcy dismissed her without sympathy, berated her for having the audacity to lie to him, and made it clear he would make further employment amongst the gentry very difficult for her to find. He then loaded his exhausted sister into their private carriage and returned to Pemberley.

Later that year, he found Mrs. Annesley, a widow native to Lambton, to take up the position of Georgiana's companion. She was a sensible if aging woman who was already fond of Georgiana having met her several times in the village when she was a child. Her own children were grown and settled away from her and she was eager to take the recovering girl under her wind and nurture her back to confidence and self-forgiveness.

Georgiana's spirit was injured but not broken. Within a few months, Darcy was pleased to see a great resilience in her he feared would not be possible after the depth of her disappointment. Because she was still young enough to enjoy life and just old enough to appreciate that enjoyment, she soon returned to her former self, though perhaps more cautious and slightly more serious than before.

Darcy, too, forgave her imprudence knowing full well that Wickham was capable of making even the most skeptical believe he was good and entirely harmless. After all, Wickham had even been able to convince Darcy's ever cautious and propriety minded father that he intended to make the church his life. Once Wickham's true nature was revealed, Darcy couldn't imagine someone less suited to the role of making sermons and providing moral guidance; debauchery and making merry were far more his speed.

Since Ramsgate, however, Darcy found he disliked being away from Georgiana and hadn't been very far from her for very long until Bingley's invitation to Netherfield. Though he trusted Mrs. Annesley, having vetted her far more thoroughly than Mrs. Younge, he couldn't shake the sense that he could have prevented the entire calamity to begin with. Georgiana herself had convinced him that it would be best for him to go because he simply could not be always at her side. He remembered telling her it was his job to take care of her rather than she taking care of him. She had only smiled in a way that reminded him of their mother and told him to enjoy himself and not worry so much.

As such, it was with pride and a sense of nostalgia that he read her cheerful and well-written letter through a second time as he meandered the garden. As he reached the closing again, he smiled fondly and sat at one of the stone benches that were spaced throughout the hedges. The bench he chose, though he did so at random, happened to face the back of the house. He rested for a moment, piecing together in his mind the reply he would make to his sister the moment he had a chance to write. He gazed vaguely at the back face of the structure, tracing the line of the roof with his eyes until a small movement in one of the windows drew his eye.

It was Elizabeth.

She looked out over the distant landscape far behind him, unaware for the moment that his eyes were on her. He felt a forbidden thrill at once again observing her without her knowledge. He realized her hair was completely unbound now and the dark coat was gone. She looked just as ravishing as before and he felt a long, liquid pull in his stomach at the sight. He knew he should look away, pretend to read the letter again— do something, anything but continue to watch her like a letch. But he could not tear his eyes away. She smiled faintly and began deftly braiding her hair, twisting it up into a neat bun. As he watched, she turned to say something to someone within he couldn't see. As she turned back to the glass, her arms still raised, their eyes met and held.

He inhaled sharply but made no move to pretend he did not see her. Instead, he raised his chin and narrowed his gaze defensively. The effect of this was an unintentionally cold glare across the distance that separated them. She displayed little surprise other than the slow lowering of her hands. Her head tipped slightly to the side as though considering him until, after what felt like an age, she turned away and walked out of his view. When she was gone, he exhaled a breath he hadn't known he was holding.

He got up irritably, pacing the same paths he had earlier traced in contentment, his mind full of her impertinence. At the very least, she should have somehow acknowledged his presence. Even a nod would do. She might have even been shocked or flattered that he looked at her. Instead, she behaved as though his attention was nothing to her, that he was too insignificant to be noticed. _What nerve she has_, he grumbled to himself. _Any woman would be pleased to have my gaze land on her. Why not Elizabeth? Why does she insist on being completely unpredictable?_

_Well, you did insult her_. The practical, honest voice was back again and he grimaced at its sagacity. Surely she must realize his words were not meant for her ears but an idle remark made in ill temper. She could forgive her mother for calling her friend plain but not him? Besides, he had used the word _tolerable_ rather than _ugly_ or _repulsive_. Surely she knew herself to be beautiful. Regardless of the sentiment expressed, there was no excuse for her to behave as though he had wrong her so seriously.

Perhaps she was merely playing coy. Perhaps she believed if she acted as though she cared not for his opinion, he would eventually flatter her outrageously and beg her forgiveness before falling helpless in love with her. Perhaps it was really a trap the likes of which he hadn't yet learned to expect.

_Oh, stop, _he told himself harshly. _For goodness sake, stop this nonsense! She is nothing but another girl looking to marry well. You have nothing to fear from her. You are the Master of Pemberley and she is nothing to you. _He repeated this quietly several times until he began to feel more like himself and less like he was going mad. Reestablishing his resolve to pay as little attention to her as possible, he made one more circuit of the garden and made his way back inside.

* * *

><p>Later that afternoon, he sought out Joseph and asked him to ready his writing supplies and bring them to the drawing room. As he waited there, he took up an aged copy of a book of poetry by William Blake he had left on the table and turned to the marked page. He lost himself in the rhythmic verse allowing it to soothe his system, which had been in riotous turmoil throughout the day. But soon his concentration was broken.<p>

With a frustrated sigh, he got up again and paced, wondering what was taking Joseph so long. After gazing out the window for some minutes in an attempt to clear his head, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Begging your pardon, sir." Joseph carried the writing podium to the table facing the window. "My apologies for the delay, sir. Mr. Bingley requested my assistance in bringing in a trunk for Miss Bennet. It seems Mr. Bingley has invited both Miss Bennet and her sister to stay until she is better…" Joseph realized he was rambling and dropped off the end of his sentence. His face flushed scarlet, and Darcy came to the suspicion that the pretty Miss Bennets had charmed the man. He had most likely offered his help rather than being enlisted.

With a roll of his eyes, he dismissed Joseph and took up his quill. No sooner had he scratched out a salutation, he heard more footsteps approaching, this time the soft patter of a lady's slippers. Though he knew it was likely not Elizabeth, he couldn't help the tensing of his body in anticipation. He turned his head toward the door, only to see that it was Caroline who entered the room, looking sullen and put out.

"Oh, Mr. Darcy." Her face underwent a drastic change, affecting the pleasant but aloof mask of superiority she usually wore. "How timely. I should warn you, sir, my brother is on his way here with Miss Elizabeth. You know, I assume, that he's invited them both to stay? Apparently, Miss Bennet has fallen asleep and rather than leaving her sister to read in silence, Charles invited Miss Elizabeth to join us with her book. So prepare yourself, my friend. I fear we are about to experience some of the country manners my brother so adores."

Darcy remained outwardly indifferent to this news, beginning his letter with a few comments about the weather and other matters that took little concentration. He was conscious of finally being afforded the opportunity to fortify himself before being in her presence again. He took a moment to trim the quill to his liking, repeating the early litany of reasons he need not pay her any mind.

"And what is it you do so secretly, sir?"

"It is no secret, Caroline. I am writing to my sister."

"Ah… Dear Georgiana. Such a lovely girl and so accomplished. Be sure to tell her my brother and I would be delighted to meet her again. Is she grown much since the spring? Is she as tall as me?"

"She has grown, but not quite so tall. She is rather about as tall as Miss Elizabeth, I think." Caroline blinked at him, the smile freezing on her face. She cleared her throat deliberately, and turned toward the window, openly displeased with his comparison.

He had just completed a paragraph in which he complimented Georgiana's previous communication, keeping it open beside him to refer directly to different passages. He moved on to make a feeble allusion to Caroline's desire to see her, leaving it open for Georgiana to decide whether or not to extend an invitation.

Soon, they heard again heard the echoing of footsteps down the hallway, this time accompanied with voices. Again he tensed in expectation, this time knowing Elizabeth would enter the room with Bingley.

"Here we are, Miss Elizabeth," Charles said, allowing her to precede him. "Do make yourself at home."

"Thank you, Mr. Bingley," he heard her say. Her voice was smiling and he imagined her glowing with delight at Bingley's attentions to her on behalf of her sister. He turned his head in her direction and caught her eye long enough to nod.

"Miss Elizabeth."

"Mr. Darcy." Her voice was now clipped and cold.

"Miss Elizabeth, how good of you to join us. Miss Bennet is resting comfortably, I hope?" Caroline was all sweetness.

"Yes. I believe she is a little better. The quiet does her good." Elizabeth opened her book and could be heard turning the pages until she found her place.

For a time, the room settled into quiet, only interrupted by the tiny scraping of his quill and the periodic rustle of turned pages.

"You write uncommonly fast, Mr. Darcy," Caroline then observed, coming to lean over him.

"You are mistaken, I write rather slowly."

"How many letters you must have occasion to write, Mr. Darcy. Letters of business, too; how odious I should think them."

"It is fortunate then that they fall to my lot instead of yours," he reassured without looking up.

"Do tell your sister that I long to see her."

"I have already told her once by your desire."

"I do dote on her. I was quite in raptures at her beautiful little design for a table." She circled the table to his other side, again lingering to looking over his shoulder.

"Perhaps you will give me leave to defer your raptures until I write again. At present, I have not length enough to do them justice," he said, allowing some of his irritation to show though he tempered the end of his request with a hushed volume. Caroline looked a bit stunned by his response.

"Well, I think it's amazing you ladies have the patience to be so accomplished," Bingley chimed in. Caroline turned her attention to him.

"What do you mean, Charles?"

"You all paint tables and play the piano and embroider cushions. I never heard of a young lady but people say she is accomplished," Charles claimed with a grin. Elizabeth smiled at him warmly over her book.

"The word is indeed applied too liberally," Darcy stated, bring her eyes back to him. "I cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen women in all my acquaintance that are truly accomplished."

"Nor I, to be sure." Caroline resumed her circling.

"Goodness, you must comprehend a great deal in the idea," Elizabeth put in with astonishment. He allowed himself to meet her gaze with sincerity, ignoring the same jump in his chest that she chose to address him directly.

"I do."

"Absolutely." Caroline took up his cause. "She must have thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing and the modern languages to deserve the word. And something in her air and manner of walking."

"And, of course, she must improve her mind by extensive reading." He glanced at the book Elizabeth held in her hands, hardly blinking when she then snapped it shut, as though denying she attempted to do just that.

"I'm no longer surprised at your knowing only six accomplished women; I rather wonder now at your knowing any." She leveled a calm, knowing look at him. He regarded her with solemn surprise.

"Are you so severe on your own sex?"

"I never saw such a woman. She would certainly be a fearsome thing to behold." Charles laughed at her jest though Darcy doubted she meant it as one. He studied her for a moment with a frown, wondering why she would disparage the pursuit of feminine skills.

All of a sudden, Caroline stopped her tread in front of Elizabeth. "Miss Elizabeth, let us take a turn about the room." Elizabeth looked up at her in amused uncertainty, wondering at Caroline's unusual request and unexpected desire for a partner. She stood, and would have started their 'turn' had not Caroline stopped to take her arm as though they were the closest of friends. "It is refreshing, is it not? After sitting so long in one attitude?"

"And it is a small kind of accomplishment, I suppose."

"Will you not join us, Mr. Darcy?" He waited a beat, conscious that Caroline was again drawing him into conversation with a purpose he could not guess.

"You can only have two motives, Caroline, and I would interfere with either."

"What can he mean?" she asked Elizabeth conspiratorially.

"Our surest way of disappointing him would be to ask him nothing about it," she replied. She was as reluctant to speak to him as he was to her, apparently.

"Oh, do tell us, Mr. Darcy," Caroline wheedled. Again, he waited, weighing his counter carefully.

"Either you are in each others' confidence and you have secret affairs to discuss," he began, thinking it doubtful, "or you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage by walking." He turned slightly in he seat as they traveled, following them with his eyes. "If the first, I should get in your way. If the second, I can admire you much better from here." Charles chuckled at this.

"Shocking. How can we punish him for such a speech?" Caroline gave coy look.

"We could always laugh at him," Elizabeth offered, slowing in front of his table. He met her eyes, his brows drawing together.

"Oh, no. Mr. Darcy is not to be teased," Caroline admonished. Elizabeth approached the table, looking at him shrewdly.

"Are you too proud, Mr. Darcy? And would you consider pride a fault or a virtue?" she wanted to know.

"That, I couldn't say."

"Because we are trying to find a fault in you."

"Perhaps it's that I find it hard to forgive the follies and vices of others. My good opinion, once lost, is lost forever," he said, wondering why he revealed so much of himself. She measured this for a moment before smiling sympathetically.

"Oh dear, I cannot tease you about that. What a shame, for I dearly love to laugh."

"A family trait, I think," Caroline quipped from where she'd drifted. Before him, Elizabeth turned her head, discomfiture plain on her face. But she only smiled good-naturedly. His brows drew together, aware of Elizabeth with every fiber of his being as she made her way back to her seat.

He made an effort to return to his letter, but found himself going over the entire episode in his mind. To his disquiet, he discovered he was displeased with Caroline's behavior much more so than Elizabeth's. For all her polish and elegance, Caroline's contempt was nothing more than a refined version of the behavior she was forever disgusted by. He tried not to dwell too closely on this, or the fact that sparing verbally with Elizabeth had made his heart pound.

Another quarter hour passed agreeably before Elizabeth cleared her throat and rose. "I believe I must be getting back to my sister, Mr. Bingley," said she. "I have been away long enough."

"Will you not join us for dinner, Miss Elizabeth?" Bingley offered. Darcy closed his eyes, praying she would decline.

"No, thank you. You are very kind, Mr. Bingley."

"Very well. I'll have Susan bring two plates up to your room, shall I?" Bingley stood with the intention of making such arrangements.

"That would be wonderful, thank you," Elizabeth said again, delighted with his diligence. "Good night, Miss Bingley. Mr. Darcy." Her voice this time was more kindly toward him and he stood as she prepared to leave the room. Meeting her eyes with a bow, he was again conscious of the duality of his reaction to her.

* * *

><p>Some hours later, he returned to the drawing room in search of the poetry book. He returned with it to his room, reading the same poems he'd examined earlier on the four seasons. Each one he applied in his mind to Pemberley, seeing its familiar vistas and scenery in his mind's eye. He continued reading until he came to the realization that the voice reciting the words in his head was not his own, but that of Elizabeth. Thoroughly appalled at himself, he clapped the book shut and set it down vehemently on the bedside table.<p> 


	6. Of Nothing

**Be forewarned: The following contains romantically written situations of an adult nature. The reader is advised to use caution lest offense be taken.**

He pressed his lips to the back of her neck, inhaling deeply of her scent even as soft wisps of hair tickled his nose. Beneath the skin, the pulse of her blood could be felt, picking up speed as he trailed his fingertips along her naked arm. His mouth followed suit, pressing soft, lingering kisses. Her breathing became ragged, changing to audible gasps as he filled his palms with her petite breasts, massaging the sensitive tips between thumb and forefinger. A low sound of pleasure issued from her throat as her eyes fluttered, having drifted open at his ministrations.

The hardness of his body neared painful intensity but he persevered, leaning down to take her nipple between his lips as one hand wandered down her torso. He suckled gently, teasing with the roughness of his tongue whilst stroking her quivering abdomen lower and lower until he felt short, soft curls against his hand. His fingers slipped into her effortlessly and a primitive growl escaped him as he gloried in the wet heat.

The sound was answered by a similar moan as her hips began to undulate, pressing into him. Shifting again, he pulled the length of her back against his chest so her buttocks rubbed against him maddeningly. She turned her head, a wordless request for a kiss. Their lips came together hurriedly with two sets of shuddering breath mixing together in an oft-practiced dance that fed their frenzy for each other. When she was close to completion he joined with her from behind, fixing his teeth gently on the curve of her shoulder, closing his eyes at the glorious sensation of being inside her. He kept the movement as slow as he could stand to draw out their pleasure. As she crested, he stayed within her, matching her cries of ecstasy as the spasms clenched around him. Now he filled her completely, faster and faster until he was spent inside her.

Still connected, he gave a satisfied chuckle and nuzzled her neck again, feeling a familiar desire to memorize everything about the woman in his arms.

"And may I say good morning to _you_, husband," she panted after a moment. Her inner walls continued to tremble around him, a delicious reminder of their very recent shared bliss. It was one of his many favorite ways to wake her.

"Mmmm… You may, but I would deign to call it a _very_ good morning, my love," he rumbled in her ear. The fire in his blood had barely quelled with their first coupling, he found. She giggled aloud when he next nibbled her earlobe.

"I see you are feeling shall we say, _vigorous_ this morning, Mr. Darcy?" she teased, arching her back.

"Vigorous is but one word," he equivocated. "A more accurate one might be … hungry, or… famished. Perhaps ravenous." He ran his tongue along the shell of her ear in a way he knew she liked. As expected, her mouth fell open, eyes closing to savor the sensation. His hands found her breasts again as he spent the next few minutes thoroughly exploring her ear and the side of her neck until she shivered.

"Are you cold, Mrs. Darcy?" he asked innocently. She laughed again, nudging him back with the point of her elbow.

"If you insist on behaving thusly, there will be consequences," she told him with mock sincerity, biting her lip. Her teasing had the desired effect of making him harden where he still lay inside her.

"Really? I find it difficult to believe you," he whispered playfully, feeling the urge come upon him again.

"Very well, then. You leave me no choice, sir." She rolled away, causing him to withdraw. Before he could feel the air against his skin, she straddled him, stroking with her hand before guiding him to her folds. Rapt, he watched as she lowered herself slowly, accepting him little by torturous little until her weight was settled atop him. Their eyes met, serious now. He felt a wave of overpowering love when she lifted his hands and lovingly kissed his palms, laying their hands together over her heart.

"God, I love you, Lizzie," he breathed as she began to rock her hips rhythmically…

… His eyes shot open and he sat up in bed in the same motion. Breathing in great gulps of air, his heart raced as though he had run a long distance. He dripped sweat such as would accompany the breaking of a high fever. The room felt hot and close, the bedcovers too heavy and stifling over him. They twisted around his legs, pulled from the foot of the bed to expose his feet. Looking frantically from side to side, the sense of a second physical presence was all but palpable. Confused, he searched the shadows though all logic told him there was nothing to see and no one there.

He was alone.

For the first time since the dreams began, the identity of the woman was no longer hidden. Rather than a nameless, faceless presence that left a memory of brown-eyes, it was a fully fleshed, living, breathing body. There was nothing for it; he could no longer say that it was a figment he made love to. The connection he tried so vigilantly to deny had been made for him in sleep. Elizabeth and the dream woman were now one and the same in his mind, no longer merely a stark similarity or the coincidental sharing of a distinct facial feature.

Through the panic, his body was still unbearably aroused though horrified dismay displaced the ardor with ruthless speed. Irrational though he knew it was, the entire experience put him more in mind of waking from a nightmare than something pleasant or blatantly erotic as the case happened to be. Once again the frank specificity of the dream left him mortally embarrassed.

The strain in his muscles gave way to an ache of restless, pent up tension. He struggled free from the prison of his bed, glancing at the sheets with a wary eye as though they lie in wait to drag him back under. He made his way to the doors leading to the balcony outside his room and flung them open impatiently. The cool of the air was welcoming and he continued to breathe deeply of its comfort.

As he paced, the cold stone beneath his bare feet served as a further reminder of the physical world to which he was bound. A world in which he was a fool to believe he was at liberty to marry just anyone no matter the consequence. It was a ridiculous dream indeed that led him in beginning to think otherwise, particularly when it allowed him to imagine he could wed a woman who behaved like a common Cyprian.

_No dream will change the unsuitability of an imprudent match_, he reminded himself. The thought that made him stop in alarm. When had he started thinking of Elizabeth as _any_ kind of match let alone an unsuitable one? _No_, he thought, _No! I will not allow a dream to dictate the direction of my life!_ Attraction meant nothing. He could not let it. _I will not be swayed from this!_

Most difficult to reconcile was the distinct difference in this dream from any of the others. Not only did he know it was Elizabeth he dreamed of but all the details stayed with him this time as well. If his previous notion of the disturbing level of clarity and vibrancy of the dreams had been troubling, it was nothing to what he'd just awoken from. He could still taste her skin, recall the exact dusky pink hue of her nipple and the texture of it in his mouth, the exquisitely perfect confines of her womanhood. All of it seemed exactly designed to drive him mad with desire.

Vivid could no longer stand as an accurate descriptor for the world he entered at night. His every sense was imprinted with the undeniably tangible experience of making love to a woman. Every touch, every breath was there in his memory as though he had actually lived it. Had he the vocabulary, his mind would have leapt to ideas of past lives or parallel universes in its grasp to understand what was happening to him. As it was, he could only surmise that the depth of the connection his mind concocted was borne of the loneliness he had tried so long to ignore.

The chill worked its way up his legs, leaving the soles of his feet numbed. He wished its reach could encompass his body, mind and heart. He needed soothing salve for the rest of him or perhaps a numbing agent for his imagination and libido. His blood continued to hum with an unaccountable awareness. The woman he dreamed of was within the same house, on the same floor with only a few doors separating them. And she was none the wiser to his predicament. _Nor should she be, for God's sake_.

The night air rapidly cooled his already damp skin and soon he was shivering, though the hot tangle of frustration never abated. He leaned against the railing, pressing his palms against the wide stone ledge. With unseeing eyes, he stared into the still black night as inexplicable fear continued to ebb with his anger. In its place, confused exhaustion took hold with an intensity he'd never before known. He lusted for her; that much was clear and he was disgusted with himself for it. Nothing could convince him of this so well as the irrefutable knowledge that the cold, rough stone beneath his hands and feet felt every bit as real to him as had the tactile warmth of her skin. The faint spice tingeing the autumn air was just as pungent and familiar to his nose as the scent of she that he called _Lizzie_.

Where had he heard _Lizzie_, for that matter? _It suits her. Perhaps you heard one of her sisters call her that_, the traitorous voice whispered.

_It hardly matters if it suits her or where you heard it. She is Miss Elizabeth Bennet to you and nothing else. _

He shoved away from the railing viciously, conscious of the inherent madness in arguing with oneself. Again, in a different age, he would have worried over the possibility of multiple personalities or hearing voices in one's head. It certainly seemed two different people rattled about his skull, one of them evidently all too prepared to encourage the situation. The other at least provided the voice of reason and sanity.

He would simply have to choose to heed the latter and ignore the former. And, of course, consult a physician as soon as may be.

How to proceed, though?

Attraction, of course, must not be allowed to flower into something stronger. How could he but acknowledge it existed? Denial was pointless and would only lead to further madness. At least now he acknowledged it, he could set it aside along with that damned treacherous voice. He would pay neither any mind.

Strangely, a sense of sadness pervaded him then. Was he to pretend he felt nothing? It was the wiser course, no matter that his loneliness would continue without relief. The real problem, however, lay in his dismal skill at performance. He knew it to be so and did not attempt to seek a remedy. It was a luxury of his station to be tolerated even in places where he was considered unpleasant. After all, it was fool indeed who would insult the wealthy no matter how disagreeable the man.

Quite simply, he had no reason to act as though he was suddenly concerned with others' impressions of him.

As he trudged back inside (for his teeth had begun to chatter ferociously) an even more distasteful possibility occurred to him. Logic dictated that the foundation of his attraction was the dreams. Perhaps that really was the _only_ reason he felt so inordinately drawn to her—because he associated her with such intimate visions. If that was the case, he worried it indicated a weakness of mind he had not before owned. Of course, it remained to be seen if this dream would be the only one that left in its wake such lucidity of mind.

Really, his acquaintance with the real Elizabeth was quite trifling and there was certainly not much else to draw him to her. He could think of several ladies of Quality whose beauty was greater. Their manners, too, were polished to a high shine while Elizabeth was practically a hoyden. She was uncommonly enamored of being out of doors and was far too pert and opinionated for her own good.

He steadfastly ignored the voice that reminded him that despite their beauty those same London ladies brought to mind more hair than wit among them.

Had not Caroline told them just last night that Jane shared with her they had an uncle in trade who resided in Cheapside, of all places? She was particularly eager to relate that the family estate Longbourn was entailed upon a male cousin. With so little to recommend her and her sisters as matches, Elizabeth would quickly learn to regret her lively ways. _No wonder the Bennets are so eager for Jane and Bingley to take to each other. They must be relying on her to raise their fortunes since she is not only the eldest but also in possession of the most beauty and sense of propriety_.

Back to the matter at hand, he paced the floor next to the bed, rubbing warmth back into his hands and arms. If Elizabeth's only hold on him hinged solely on the dreams, it ought to be easy enough to dispel. He would turn any weakness on his part into strength and utilize the opportunity to inure himself to her presence. And if successful, he would no longer be susceptible to the failings of lustfulness. Even better, the dreams might end as well. _At last_.

And so it was with cautious hope that Darcy decided once again to head to the stables for a calming ride. As it was barely dawn, he dressed without aide and walked the silent halls quickly, trying not to imagine who lay behind certain doors. Bingley mentioned Elizabeth insisted upon sharing her sisters rooms incase she needed something or worsened during the night.

He nipped briefly into the larder and took two apples, one each for himself and Admiral, for apples were the horse's favorite. The first fingers of dawn light had just begun to grip the sky as he exited the kitchens. The glow of moist air brightened as he walked, picking his way carefully over the stone-dotted ground. The door to the stable was still closed; it's occupants ostensibly still abed.

He heaved the large door open upon its slider, making note to mention it needed greasing. As he stepped inside, he was surprised to see one of the young grooms standing in front of Admiral's stall. The boy was leaning against the door with a dazed expression and Darcy wondered irritably if the boy had slept in the stall for warmth. He knew street urchins in London tended to do so and were regularly rousted from the stables of a morning in winter.

"You there… Edmund, is it?" He inquired, wondering how the boy had missed his entrance. The boy jumped in surprise, springing away from the stall door to make an awkward bow. The boy looked to be only slightly over ten years and was dressed roughly. Darcy made another mental note to tell Bingley he would have to have a livery designed for the stables if he intended to stay at Netherfield long term.

"Yessir," the boy bobbled again, with a hand on his cap. "Edmund, sir, at your service, sir." As an afterthought, the boy tightened his fingers on the cap and took it from his head, holding it in front of his body like a small shield. Darcy sighed. It seemed servants other than his own were always waiting for him to get angry or mete out punishment.

"I wish to ride, Edmund," he ordered in a softer voice. "Saddle Admiral for me… please." The nicety came reluctantly, but the boy relaxed nonetheless.

"Oh… certainly, sir," he said with relief. "May I say, Admiral's the best 'orse I ever met, sir. Near everyone says so." He spied the apples in Darcy's hand. "He's like to get spoilt with people admirin 'im."

Darcy frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Why, just now someone else come to give 'im a treat." Edmund's voice was muffled as he darted into the tack room for Darcy's saddle.

"Why wasn't I made aware of this?" Darcy snapped. "Has someone been visiting my horse?" He regretted his anger quickly when the boy returned with the look of fright back in his eyes.

"I-I'm sorry, sir," he stuttered, this time holding the saddle in front of himself. "I would 'ave told you but today was only the second time she come."

"Who came, Edmund?"

"A lady from the 'ouse, sir," he mumbled, his accent becoming more pronounced. "The pretty one wiv dark 'air what's 'ere for her sick sister. I 'eard a noise from my cot, sir, and come down from the 'ayloft to check the 'orses. Miss Lizzie she said to call her, and gave Admiral two lumps of sugar, said it would be our secret. She just left, sir. Said she was out for a walk, she was." He pointed to the far end of the barn were the other large sliding door was open slightly.

"She… came once before?" Darcy asked, staring in the direction he indicated. Edmund blinked at the change in his demeanor, for Darcy was unaware of neither the warmth that entered his voice at the question nor the softening of his eyes.

"Yessir. She come last night too. Found 'er right in the stall with Admiral, talkin to 'im like a friend. She didn't give 'im nothin then but said 'e was the most beautiful 'orse she ever seen. I asked if she was lookin to ride but she said she don't remember how. 'Asn't since she were a little girl." Darcy continued to look toward the far door and Edmund continued to look at him. The groom had never seen the man's face so open and unguarded; he could have believed he was someone other than one of the wealthiest men in England. In a second, it was gone and Darcy cleared his throat, making Edmund jump again. Darcy frowned down at the apple in his hand as if he forgot how it came to be there.

"I'll have Admiral ready in a jot, sir." Edmund shouldered the stall door open, shaking his head at the vagaries of the rich. He'd worked for some very eccentric people in his short life, but Mr. Bingley's friend was one of most taciturn. He was typically polite in his address but not particularly friendly except with Admiral. Edmund saw and appreciated the way the man treated the horse, but with people he had wide varieties of temper. Why should it confound him that someone else liked his horse? If anything, he ought to be pleased by the compliment.

It was nothing to the shock he'd gotten at finding a lady in Admiral's stall, though. Most of them sniffed and wrinkled their noses at the ever-present smell of hay and manure and spent as little time as possible in the stables. Any dirt at all caused them to squeal like stuck pigs and rail at him for not keeping the place clean enough. Just after their arrival, in fact, Mr. Bingley's sister had chastised him for touching her saddle with dirty hands, complaining that she would get her dress soiled when she rode.

Most people in general, whether ladies or gentlemen, never looked at him directly in any case, except to order him around or tell him something he did was wrong. But Miss Lizzie seemed different. She had looked him in the face and spoken to him kindly. She made him feel like he wasn't just a groom in a stable but someone to be trusted. She had asked his name and even told him to call her by her own. He almost felt bad for telling sober Mr. Darcy her secret since she'd been so nice to him, but figured the owner had a right to know what went on with his horse. He'd been taught to never keep such things from those who paid his wages. Technically Mr. Bingley paid him, but everyone knew Mr. Bingley listened to Mr. Darcy a great deal, so it wouldn't do to cross either one.

Besides, he thought Miss Lizzie had been teasing when she said not to tell. Admiral was certainly taken with her, leaning into her hand when she rubbed his nose and scratched his neck. To Edmund, this was as good a gage as any for the measure of a person. Horses could usually tell the good sort of people from the bad, especially horses as smart as Admiral.

He supposed that meant Admiral's owner was also a good sort of person, for the horse clearly liked him very much. After all, the man only made Edmund very nervous when he was around; he was never truly mean to him. It wasn't Mr. Darcy's fault Edmund was more comfortable among animals than people. Edmund's own father, the head groom, told him as much nearly everyday.

Edmund hoped he would never act so strangely over a girl. He wondered, too, if Mr. Bingley's friend knew what was very obvious to Edmund after that morning. Mr. Darcy was falling in love with pretty Miss Lizzie Bennet.

* * *

><p>Late the next morning, Darcy had not long been at breakfast with Bingley and his sister when Mr. Myles entered, looking ever so slightly less staid than usual. The three of them looked up as he scuffed to a stop between the pillars.<p>

"A Mrs. Bennet, a Miss Bennet, a Miss Bennet and… a Miss Bennet, sir," he pronounced with care, pausing to make sure all Bennets were accounted for.

"Oh for heaven's sake, are we to receive every Bennet in the country?" Caroline said in ill temper. She glared pointedly at her brother, who quirked his head.

"Perhaps I forgot to mention, um," he floundered a bit under her stare, "Miss Bennet's family are coming to collect her today?"

"Yes," Caroline said dryly. "I dare say it quite slipped your mind, Charles."

"Miss Elizabeth told me yesterday Miss Bennet is well enough to return home," Charles continued, showing the first hint of his disappointment. "She sent a note yesterday afternoon. Her mother replied that they would come in the family carriage to escort her back to Longbourn. They are rather earlier than I thought and I did not realize she would bring all the rest of her daughters, though she was insistent upon coming in person…" He trailed off with alarm as Caroline's look of aggravation grew. She set her buttering knife down with a clatter.

"Of course she was," she said dangerously. Her eyes slid to Darcy, who kept his attention trained on the table at the news. Bingley shrugged and pushed back from the table, immediately consumed with nerves at the idea of entertaining his favorite's family on such short notice.

"Give us a moment, Myles, then show them into the east sitting room, I think." The steward hesitated. "Yes, the east sitting room," Bingley said with more conviction, straightening his frock coat again.

"Very good, sir," Mr. Myles nodded and turned, taking a deliberate breath of fortitude before opening the door to face the gaggle of females once more.

Darcy knew only relief that Elizabeth would soon be away from the house and that much farther removed from his presence. It was likely that Bingley's continued interest in her sister would cause them to meet again regardless. The additional stress of anticipating his every interaction with her wore heavily on his sensibilities. He felt sure she was unaware of his conflicted feelings but could not bring himself to mourn the loss nearly as much as his friend.

He hadn't seen much of her since the previous morning when he rode past her while returning to Netherfield from his ride.

He approached at her back from some distance away, taking note of her bowed head. Her hair was still plaited in a single braid down her back and she again wore the dark overcoat from her arrival. She walked slowly with a halting gait that at first gave him concern that she was somehow injured. As he drew closer, however, he saw a book in her hand that was surely the cause of her wandering steps. Her other hand was at her mouth where she chewed a thumbnail absentmindedly as she read.

Having assured himself of her welfare, he spurred Admiral to a canter. From the edge of his vision, he saw her start and pull her hand from her lips guiltily as he passed as though worried he would witness her habit and judge it a failing on her part. Though he did not look back, he felt her eyes follow him clear back to the stable.

Heaven forgive him if pride didn't cause him to sit a bit straighter in the saddle as a result. He cursed his own conceit soundly when he almost checked to see if she had watched him take Admiral over a simple jump before leading him to the mounting block.

The better part of the day found him ensconced determinedly in the library where he hoped to be safe from any intrusion. There were matters enough from Pemberley to occupy the majority of his attention. As it was, he understood Bingley had already shown Elizabeth the room and though she had professed her delight in detail at its bounty, refused his offer of a book or two for entertainment during her stay. She claimed her own book brought from home provided all the diversion she needed. Therefore, Darcy felt free to assume she would have little cause to visit the library again.

Damned if he did not have to ignore the slightest bit of disappointment that she did not, however.

She appeared at supper and attended closely to her sister when they both joined the party for a short time afterward. He had made a point to not look at her more than the flow of conversation demanded and kept his own counsel as much as possible. When the rest of the house retired, he even stayed up later than usual practicing billiards, hoping to be tired enough to avoid dreams if at all possible.

Darcy came back to himself to find Bingley looking at him expectantly.

"Shall we?" He tugged the end of his sleeves fretfully. It was on the tip of Darcy's tongue to ask if his presence was really necessary. Instead, he took one last sip of tea, suppressed yet another sigh and rose to follow Bingley and his sister to the east sitting room.

The room was a mirror of the drawing room on the opposite side of the hall. It also had couches facing each other but rather than a desk, a third long fainting couch sat parallel to the windows. It was on this couch Caroline positioned herself carefully. Her dress reflected the latest in London fashion and as such, she arranged the skirts with a few practiced twitches to make them fall just so. Darcy resisted an urge to roll his eyes and moved to stand next to Bingley behind her. The latter anxiously attempted to smooth down his unruly hair before signaling the servant to open the doors.

Elizabeth entered first with a look of conscientious serenity about her. Only her hands twisting in front of her revealed any apprehension about the impending meeting. She dropped a hasty curtsey and sat on the couch to Darcy's right. Though she wore the same dress she'd arrived in, it had by now been laundered clean of any offending mud and pressed to perfection.

Peculiar heat suffused his mid-section as he once again noticed the tiny lace scalloping at the neckline.

At that moment, a cacophony came to his ears that served only to reinforce his decision to ignore such feelings. Just beyond their view before the threshold was met, a great chorus of shushing sounds filled the hallway as though a nest of vipers had been stirred. This time he did roll his eyes, for despite the silence such an action usually engendered, one female voice continued to titter uncontrollably. A conspicuous ruddiness stole into Elizabeth's cheeks.

En masse, the remaining Bennet ladies entered and sat sighingly on the couch opposite Elizabeth. The mother and two daughters beside her were dressed in what appeared to be their Sunday best in bright summer colors. They three looked nearly overcome with excited admiration. The daughter bringing up the rear, conversely, was dressed in nearly unrelieved darkness and wore a bored expression. Before Bingley could open his mouth, Mrs. Bennet began to speak.

"What an excellent room you have, sir," she gushed, stroking the arm of the couch. "Such expensive furnishings. Oh, I do hope you intend to stay here, Mr. Bingley?" Her eyebrows raised in entreaty.

"Absolutely," Bingley complied charmingly. "I find the country very diverting. Don't you agree, Darcy?" He blinked at this unexpected application for his opinion.

"I find it perfectly adequate even if the society is a little less varied than in Town," he said without much thought.

"Less varied? Not at all," Mrs. Bennet replied with some indignation. "We dine with four and twenty families of all shapes and sizes. Sir William Lucas, for example, is a very agreeable man, and is a good deal less self-important than some people half his rank." Darcy's eyes narrowed in a scowl at this. He swore the blush staining Elizabeth's face deepened but could not bring himself to worry for her discomfort.

"Mr. Bingley," one of her sisters began, "is true you have promised to hold a ball here at Netherfield?"

"A ball? Um—" Charles hesitated. Darcy felt sure he hadn't said anything of the kind.

"It would be an excellent way to make new friends. You could invite the militia," she continued. "They're excellent company."

"Oh, do hold a ball!" The girl next to Mrs. Bennet could no longer contain herself and bounced in her seat. Darcy imagined she was likely the source of the earlier giggling.

"Kitty." Elizabeth drew her attention and gave a minute shake of her head. The silent admonishment gave Darcy pause as his gaze lingered on her. It was a mother's position to rein in her daughter, not that of a sister. Mrs. Bennet, however, missed the exchange and was just as thrilled at the idea of Bingley's compliance. He suspected it was a position Elizabeth found herself in with frequency.

"When your sister is recovered, you shall name the day," Charles indulged with a smile. The two youngest nearly jumped from their seats in excitement at the news.

"I think a ball is a perfectly irrational way to make new acquaintance," the third sister put in suddenly. Her sisters stared daggers as she continued and even her mother looked round in surprise. "It would be better if conversation instead of dancing were the order of the day."

"Indeed, much more rational but a rather less like a ball," Caroline pointed out, her face tightening. The unrestrained silliness of their talk had apparently surpassed the height of Caroline's tolerance level. It might have also been attributed to being volunteered by her brother to host a ball she had to wish to give.

"Thank you, Mary," Elizabeth said after a short pause. She looked amused that her sisters had managed to dislodge Caroline's usually unruffled countenance.

Another clumsy silence was about to stretch too long when a soft knock sounded at the door. A maid entered timidly and bowed to the assembled.

"If you please, sir, Miss Bennet is almost ready to come down."

"Miss Elizabeth, allow me to assist you in collecting your things." Caroline rose gracefully and gave her a brittle smile. Her brother looked at her in surprise at her failure to offer their guests refreshment of any kind before their return trip. Instead, she made it clear she wanted them gone as soon as possible.

"Ah… Mrs. Bennet, shall I escort you all to your carriage?" Bingley offered with a bow. Darcy grimaced slightly as Mrs. Bennet blushed like a maid and the two youngest began again to giggle. The third rolled her eyes at their folly.

In the space of a minute, Darcy was alone in the room with servants, guests and household having scattered completely. He let out a breath he was unaware of holding. The Bennet women left him feeling thoroughly exhausted.

Much to his chagrin, propriety dictated his presence at the farewell, though he considered disappearing to his rooms. He amused himself in thinking of taking such drastic action if only to save Mrs. Bennet from further perceived injury at the hands of his _self-importance_, rather than saving himself from being subjected to further ridiculousness.

Instead, he made his way slowly down to the entrance to the gravel drive where the Bennet family carriage awaited, ruing his rigorous attention to matters of obligation. He realized now the reason for Mrs. Bennet's cut was clear. Obviously, Elizabeth would have told her family of his slight against her at the Assembly, thus sealing his fate as an unpleasant, haughty man. _No matter_, he thought. _I refuse to go so low as to be completely without manners_.

Later, he would wish he had stolen away.

At length, he heard the noisy approach of Bingley and the ladies before they descended the stairs and braced himself. Mrs. Bennet exclaimed loudly she was certain a tapestry they passed was the largest and most opulent she had ever seen. At least two of the girls' incessant laugher nearly drowned out her words.

Darcy gritted his teeth.

As expected, not one of them gave more than the obligatory acknowledgement to him but smiled and bobbed to Bingley as he handed them one by one into the carriage though Darcy also stood to the side, just as ready to assist.

"What a fine, imposing place it is to be sure, is it not, my dears? There's no house to equal it in the county," he heard Mrs. Bennet tell them. He looked up to see Jane Bennet approaching them, looking rested if a bit pale. She nodded to him.

"Mr. Darcy."

"Miss Bennet."

"Mr. Bingley, I don't know how to thank you," she said in earnest.

"You're welcome anytime you feel the least bit poorly," Charles said with a grin, offering his hand for her support.

Darcy tried not to tense up as Caroline approached with Elizabeth. "Thank you for your stimulating company. It has been most instructive," the latter said diplomatically. He wondered if Caroline realized she was being teased to her face.

"Not at all, the pleasure is all mine," she replied without feeling. The two curtsied and Elizabeth continued on.

"Mr. Darcy," she said flatly with a look of distaste.

"Miss Elizabeth." He gave a cursory nod, feeling no little irritation when she then turned and supplied a warm smile for Bingley.

Perhaps it was that irritation that took hold of him then. Perhaps vestiges of the dream were to blame. Perhaps he wanted to unsettle her in the same way he himself had been unsettled since setting eyes on her. Perhaps it was the influence of the fine weather. Whatever the reason, Darcy's body at that moment seemed not entirely under his control. Rather, it seemed to undertake an experiment the likes of which could not have been planned more perfectly to demonstrate the true level of his danger.

Before he could prevent it, he took Elizabeth's ungloved hand as she entered the carriage. From a place far removed, he noted she looked down in surprise to find her hand in his. The second their skin met, his insides turned over. A tremor traveled up his arm. He couldn't breathe. His heart throbbed. A deep well of yearning yawned wide and tempting.

Without conscious intent, the touch took on the qualities of a caress more than disinterested assist as his thumb grazed over her knuckles. He did not let go until the last moment. Their eyes met for a brief moment before he turned to go back inside. In that moment, he saw her utter confusion at his action.

His hand felt hot like he held it too close to the fire, which he would later suppose was all too accurate. Though he kept his arms down to his sides, he stretched still tingling fingers as he walked and did not stop until he reached his rooms. If anyone tried to speak to him during that time, he was deaf to the sound.

After closing the doors, he stared grimly at the offending appendage as though another digit had sprung up from nothing. He touched it with his other hand and walked to the window to examine it in better lighting. Externally, at least, it felt quite normal if not cool to the touch from being outside. Internally, though, it still tingled with heat at every point that came in contact with Elizabeth. Dismayed, he shook it slightly and rubbed the fingertips together.

What possessed him to touch her, especially when she wore no gloves? The soft promise of her skin would no doubt haunt him. How long would he pay the price of dream filled nights for this transgression? And worse yet, why in God's name did he want so badly to do it again?


	7. Lord, What Fools

**Oh Em Gee! This chapter was like pulling teeth! It did NOT want to be written - can't say I'm really all that happy with it still but I'm tired of messing with it! So sorry for the long break between chapters, but my life has been a bit disrupted lately. Every time I sat down to write, it was just not working out. Sorry to keep this one brief but the Netherfield Ball is coming, promise! Please review!**

A few days after the Bennet sisters returned home, Bingley called at Longbourn, ostensibly to inquire after the elder's recovery. He found Mrs. Bennet and her daughters at home along with a visiting relation whose name he could not remember by the time he had returned to Netherfield.

Though Bingley would have happily dropped by much earlier, the visit was delayed because he was loath to embark on a first visit to his favorite's household without Darcy. Desperate to avoid more contact with Elizabeth though, the latter managed to find a number of excuses to keep from accompanying him until Bingley finally decided to venture forth alone.

Upon receiving reassurances that Miss Bennet was back to her previous health, he was promptly reminded by her mother that the youngest Bennet had been given the right to name the day of the ball. Bingley, who quite wished the promise forgotten, stammered that he supposed he had indeed said that very thing. When Lydia Bennet proceeded to name a date only a fortnight hence however, Bingley was forced to admit that he had in fact discussed the matter with his sister who insisted she could not possibly be expected to give a ball with less than a month's planning. Though Elizabeth and Jane stated empathy for Miss Bingley's position, their mother and sisters were less accommodating. In the face of the Bennets' collective disappointment, Bingley suggested a compromise.

Thus, it was decided the Netherfield Ball would be in just over three weeks time.

When Bingley returned home, he dutifully endured his sister's wrath with as much dignity as he could muster. Her vociferous displeasure was expressed in her private sitting room where she insisted he return to Longbourn at once to tell the Bennets the ball would be in a month's time and no less. Bingley refused (albeit somewhat meekly), citing a desire for his word to be trusted, particularly since promises had already been made.

Fortunately, he had to dodge only one hairbrush, one vase, and one pillow, all of which were thrown with alacrity at his head and none of which hit the mark. Upon hearing the disturbance, Darcy approached with caution, waiting a short ways down the hallway for his friend to emerge. He wondered how many injuries (and possibly walls) would need to be patched up when the dust settled. (Though Caroline chose to believe otherwise, it was not the first time Darcy had witnessed the secondhand evidence of her tantrums.)

After a moment of utter silence, Bingley exited the room, closing the door directly behind himself.

"Caroline is displeased, it seems," he said needlessly, tugging at his coat. Darcy's lips twitched as he visualized the picture of rage now hidden behind the door; perhaps there was even now steam issuing from under the lady's fiery coiffure.

"So I gathered," he agreed. He felt it was the safest response he could possibly make.

Neither of them owned to any great surprise when Miss Bingley declined to be in their company for the rest of the day, citing a headache as the cause for her absence. The gentlemen enjoyed a leisurely meal followed by several games of billiards, never once expressing the tacit shared relief that they would not be forced to endure hostile glances and icy silence from the lady of the house.

When Caroline graced them with her presence the next day, she behaved as though the ball was nothing more than the most minor irritant and she had never really been anything but willing to oblige her brother's wishes. No one felt the need to contradict this change of heart, though the truth was quickly common knowledge amongst the staff.

The next weeks were lost to a haze of preparatory activity. Rooms that had thus far been neglected and left shrouded where aired, dusted, cleaned, and the wood oiled until all surfaces shone. In particular, the diningroom, designated to serve as the ballroom, received special attention from Bingley. He enjoyed dancing to an extent unusual even amongst the gentry and wanted to make sure the neighborhood (and thereby, Jane Bennet) had never seen so well appointed a house, so grand a ballroom, or so enjoyable an event. His level of anticipatory anxiety was such that Darcy began to heartily wish the idea had never been mentioned by the youngest Bennet who elicited Bingley's promise. At times, he would have cheerfully rewound the clock to the morning of the Bennets' visit and slipped laudanum in Bingley's morning drink simply to keep him from agreeing to any part of the scheme.

Bingley's admiration for the eldest Bennet daughter flagged not a wit in the interim though circumstances kept them from meeting very often. He spoke of her frequently and when he was not expounding her virtues audibly, Darcy could tell she was in his thoughts. He had taken to staring around distractedly and examining love poems, even going so far as to read certain passages aloud, calling for extensive discussion and evaluation of the words. (Usually, Bingley did not have the patience to sit and read for any significant stretch of time, but rather had several books in constant progress that even with the best of intentions he nearly always failed to finish.) When applied to for his opinion, Darcy equivocated as much as possible, striving to keep his commentary non-committal. He gave scholarly if not particularly personal judgments on the works, feeling much as he had as a student at Cambridge.

Caroline still seemed determined to discourage her brother's preference, but did so as indirectly as possible. She would change the subject whenever that of Jane Bennet arose or attempt to draw her brother into other pursuits, never stating her opinions outright beyond a decided expression of distaste. At such times, she would direct a pointed glance in Darcy's direction, under the apparent assumption that they were once again in agreement that Miss Bennet did not represent a suitable match for her brother. Darcy chose just as pointedly to leave her assumption unacknowledged for the time being.

Much to Darcy's relief, Bingley's desire to discuss love poetry outstripped his concern for the actual responses received from his companions. His internal musings conveniently occupied the chief of his attention, diverting any concern he might have given to Caroline or Darcy's menial input. It was a pattern Bingley had traced before when smitten with more than one young lady, for his approachable and engaging nature led his affections to be very easily engaged as well. Though his past flirtations tended more toward infatuation than serious design, Darcy continued to worry his friend was forming a far deeper attachment than any he previously entertained. Far more worrisome was the possibility that these feelings might yet prove to be unalterable or one sided.

Despite the initial fit of pique, Caroline soon commandeered by right of her position as hostess a few specific areas of preparation, leaving the mundane practicalities to her brother. Of highest import to her were those aspects whose execution would best reflect her superb sense of refinement and elegance. She wanted no opportunity squandered in which she could impress upon the people of Meryton her superiority of taste and fashion, providing the only true example to which she felt they would ever be able to aspire. Conveniently, her brother was prepared to cede any personal preference in exactly the same areas in order to keep the tentative peace. (Perhaps this acquiescence was more expressly borne of the desire to avoid more episodes during which nearby objects might be utilized as projectiles aimed at his person.)

Caroline spent hours dithering over various small details of entertainment, décor, and refreshment. She poured over the most current popular music, debating the merits of instrumental combinations; the virtues of string quintets as opposed to quartets or trios. She played with different arrangements of flowers, ribbons, and fabrics. When it came to the choice of punch to be served, she insisted on sampling a variety of concoctions herself. Difficult too was settling upon the manner of dress that ought to be required of attendees. Here, Darcy privately observed, Caroline obsessed for quite some time, vacillating between several aesthetic motifs currently in vogue amongst the _ton_.

With growing regularity, she presented elaborate pageants in which the servants were sharply directed to parade options before Darcy and Bingley, Caroline all the while claiming she _simply couldn't_ decide by herself which colors, blossoms, flavors, etcetera, to choose for the ball. She would present each choice with such studied indifference that the two gentlemen initially felt safe expressing their preference in no uncertain terms. Imagine their surprise then, to discover nothing so important in their role as audience members than to first discover which option was Caroline's first choice and subsequently to find themselves in praising agreement.

Even after the gentlemen became wise to the nature of the game, Caroline continued in several instances to make noises of severe uncertainty. And so it was, only a week into her fevered planning, she stated the absolute necessity of consulting her equally fashionable friends in London, to which end she used ridiculous amounts of paper to send multiple letters with alarming frequency.

All in all, Darcy found Caroline's dramatics of indecision amusing in light of her voluble anger in the beginning.

Ultimately, it was determined that attendees would be asked to adhere to a color theme insomuch as their wardrobes allowed this far from the many fashionable modistes of Town. (Caroline's exact words were 'in this country backwater'—a phrase she shrewdly refrained from repeating in the formal invitations.) Charles hesitantly suggested the theme be kept simple, since there would inevitably be a limited amount of time for their guests to account for unusual requirements. Caroline purposely ignored him, though her hands clenched into ill-tempered little fists at any mention of the abbreviated timetable.

Upon hearing the particulars of this latest idea, Darcy's sense of disquiet grew. More than anything, he had hoped to avoid thoughts of a certain someone until her presence at the ball left him no choice. It occurred to him the chosen theme could end up including any one of a number of colors or combinations thereof that he now associated with her, though the chances of this were admittedly quite slim. Still, foreknowledge of the ladies' attire would undoubtedly allow his newly colorful imagination to continue running wild.

At last, Caroline announced the ladies would be asked to wear shades of white or as pale a color as possible; the gentlemen, excepting the red coats of militia officers, would wear black and white.

Despite the obvious matrimonial implications, the choice seemed innocuous enough and Darcy felt a small measure of cautious relief that proved frustratingly premature. His mind promptly furnished visions of her in various styles of white dress dancing with a parade of faceless young men, her enjoyment no less complete than it had been at the Meryton Assembly.

Preparations for the ball meant he and Charles had spent less and less time in each other's company as the day approached. Occasionally, Charles would ride out with him to get away from the house, but his company was more in body than in spirit, his thoughts even more scattered than usual. Besides his distraction over Miss Bennet, Bingley insisted upon supervising the any renovations or repairs he felt were needed both inside and outside the house, as well as the application of fresh paint to brighten the ballroom.

Aside from offering occasional advice on matters of estate, Darcy found he was far too frequently left to his own devices. Reflections of _her_ cropped up with increasing frequency. He began composing lists in his head as a means of distraction; he listed the monarchs of England and France in order of ascendancy, and then moved on to Roman emperors. He named every tenant at Pemberley he could remember, and went through the sculptures and paintings in the gallery in alphabetical order. When these became tiresome, he sought out his favorite poems and Shakespearean sonnets and endeavored to memorize them taking great care to avoid the subject of love and to imagine the voice reciting them was his aunt Catherine. He even considered brushing up on his knowledge of Latin – anything to keep his thoughts appropriately occupied.

During the day his plan enjoyed relative success. Evening and night were another matter entirely.

After several consecutive nights of still more vivid dreams, he enacted a second part to his plan that had worked while she had stayed at Netherfield. For several evenings in a row, he found various methods to keep awake longer than necessary in the hopes that his mind would be too exhausted to do more than rest. He would walk outside in the garden after dinner until it was too dark to see or practice billiards alone until the hour grew late or copy long letters to Georgiana and Colonel Fitzwilliam in his best penmanship. He would read at least an hour longer than usual, forcing himself to focus intently on the words of books with subjects outside his normal purview, hoping they would therefore sharpen his attention. He would also rise each morning at dawn to ride before breaking his fast with the Bingleys, thereby lengthening his day that much more.

After only a week, however, he abandoned this facet of his plan.

One morning at breakfast, which had been a relatively quiet affair since the decampment of the Bennet sisters, Caroline commented loudly and with great concern on the sudden appearance of dark circles under Darcy's eyes. She expressed the erroneous fear that illness had finally seized him, concluding it surely stemmed from the day he'd ridden out in the rain against her express advice. Upon reassurances that he felt hale and whole as always, Caroline suggested he have the servants exchange his current bed with one from another room if it would ease his slumber. Even Bingley roused himself from the ever-present book of love poetry to state his agreement that Darcy did indeed look a bit haggard and drawn.

The revelation that Caroline entertained any thoughts whatsoever about his bed was alarming enough; he possessed a natural inclination to remove himself from anything that gave her further reason to fawn over him. Bingley's agreement with his sister was equally troubling, given his usual inattention to detail and more recent causes for abstraction.

Congruent to his friends' concerns, Darcy began to suspect part of the dreams' continuing influence was the result of his giving them far too much consequence. Why should trifling dreams compromise his rest? Despite his determination to prevent the dreams from dictating his future, he'd allowed them to control his actions in an attempt to avoid them altogether. From that moment on, he resolved to devote his energies to another tack; he would simply act as though the dreams did not exist. Even if he awoke with perfect recall of them in the morning, he would go about his day as though he did not. He would exert a different type of control by undermining the fear of the dreams, giving them no power to continue disrupting his life.

Fortunately, his return to routine did not signify a return of the dreams. If Darcy felt this was a welcome reprieve from the profound confusion and forbidden fascination that marked his prior understanding, it went unappreciated. If he knew any disappointment upon waking that another night had passed without interruption, it was promptly squelched. The dark circles and other signs of sleeplessness disappeared as though they too never existed and the attention of his companions was deflected back to their respective preparations.

The day before the ball, Caroline's temper had so deteriorated that the men opted to remove themselves from the premises for a time. Though such errands were generally consigned to servants, the two of them offered to undertake a journey into the village for a few last minute purchases. Once again, there was a sense of liberation between them to be away from the increasingly volatile presence of Bingley's sister. Charles was himself still caught up with nerves, but seem to have come to an unusual acceptance that all he could do had been done to ensure the ball's success. Darcy's feelings on the impending arrival of the anticipated event were quite mixed. He alternately felt glad it would soon be over and distress that it was still to come and suspected Bingley's feelings were similar.

When they were but minutes outside the bounds of Netherfield, the mood lifted considerably and they embarked on harmless topics of conversation. In Meryton, they separated briefly, Bingley to buy the items he'd been tasked to acquire, and Darcy to post correspondence. Several times before they quit town, Darcy thought he spied a familiar face amongst the crowd or through the window of a shop but dismissed it as nothing more than the residual strain of having been without social interaction at Netherfield.

Soon after gathering their horses, Darcy again took note of that peculiar restlessness in Bingley that usually preceded some kind of disclosure of a nature potentially distasteful to the recipients. Bingley glanced at his friend hesitantly from under the brim of his hat and seemed about to speak, his mouth opening and closing like an absurd fish. Darcy felt shaken and irritable from the discomforting visit to town and was in no mood to humor his friend's silly reluctance.

"You want to visit Longbourn, don't you?" he stated flatly. His friend's guilty smile was all the confirmation needed. Darcy's shoulders slumped in defeat. It was difficult to determine which of the two he found most objectionable then, returning to the tense environment at Netherfield or the pronounced lack of grace that would be attendant at Longbourn. Despite his recent affirmation regarding the dreams, it was on the tip of his tongue to insist they return to the house lest their presence be missed. He had but one more day, after all, one more day before being forcibly reminded of that which he would rather forget. Before he had to face _her_.

"Would you mind terribly? I would like to see Miss Bennet before I'm bound to play host tomorrow evening," Bingley said hesitantly. The innocent hopefulness in Bingley's face made Darcy's retort die on his lips. He cast about for sufficient reason to prevent the detour and found nothing. One less day of peace, he admitted grudgingly, was likely a small price to pay since depriving Bingley would only ensure his discourse for the rest of the evening featured nothing but Jane Bennet. He frantically considered leaving Bingley to continue alone again but did not think his friend would appreciate being abandoned a second time.

"Very well Bingley, but we'd best keep it brief," he snapped after a moment. Bingley's grin was blinding as he turned his horse in the direction of Longbourn, completely unaware of Darcy's rudeness. With a regretful sigh, he followed a few paces behind, wishing not for the first time he could match Bingley's ease and cheerful mood. There was nothing for it now but to pray she was not at home.

The path led them through a small copse of dense trees that opened upon a swollen stream. Absently, Darcy imagined it must feed into the lake near Longbourn. _Yes, that lake. The lake where you hid from her like a child_, he thought sulkily. All the memories he'd been methodically turning away were now flashing through his mind like a flock of deranged starlings.

They entered the clearing just as a group of people came into view on the opposite bank.

"Look, Mr. Bingley!" It was Jane Bennet and several of her sisters who soon drew abreast of her position. At first, Darcy felt a wave of relief. _She_ was not with them.

Then from behind a tree, she emerged. An unwelcome thrill ran through him that her hair was down again. Today's dress was unusual and appeared homemade from a light brown fabric that mimicked a man's waistcoat above the skirt; a patterned piece of fabric served as a light shawl. It was several moments before he realized she was not alone, but in the company of a red-coated militia officer. His mouth pulled down in a frown as he noted their comfortable proximity and her playful expression as she gazed upon him.

Time slowed as he shifted his eyes to the man who so blithely held Elizabeth's attention.

Faintly, he was aware of Bingley speaking to them across the water. One of the younger girls began skipping about in the edge of his vision but he was deaf to her folly. A dull roaring filled his head as the officer's face sharpened in cruel definition. Barbed tendrils of shock made him dizzy and nauseated.

"Be sure to invite Mr. Wickham!" Lydia Bennet trilled the name breathlessly, casually. "He's a credit to his profession!" As though the new acquaintance was anyone other than the man who tried to ruin Darcy's sister. As though he was a delightful new plaything to amuse and flatter and not a heartless rake that preyed on innocent young women, a credit to nothing so much as villainy and sin.

_Wickham. _The name reverberated through him like a physical blow, mercilessly confirming the dismay growing in his heart. Perverse pleasure stabbed through bitter disappointment at the clear discomfort on the other man's face. The pallor visible above the lurid red collar of his jacket filled Darcy with vindictive triumph that he too was dumbfounded at this intrusive amalgamation of providence. Of all the places in all of England, Wickham was here in Hertfordshire ingratiating himself with the only woman who had ever managed to catch Darcy's attention. A woman whose grip on him rivaled the sirens of Greek mythology.

As their eyes remained heatedly locked, Wickham's expression shifted to one of offense at Darcy's coldness. He gave an impudent little nod, a timorous acknowledgement extended like a withered olive branch surreptitiously tipped with poison.

Elizabeth's eyes followed their silent exchange with obvious bewilderment as Darcy came to appreciate the awful scope of his predicament. Refusing to recognize Wickham would only strengthen her impression that he was nothing but proud and disagreeable. Even though he ought not to care, the idea that Wickham would be the one to provide reinforcement of her poor opinion seemed almost unspeakably unjust. Her earlier besotted expression left little doubt that Wickham had already worked his charm upon her. What of his lies did she already know? And which lies did she believe?

But Darcy refused to respond in kind; not even for the sake of propriety could he pretend that he did not want the man's head on a pike. He tasted bile in his mouth as he suppressed a savage desire to jump the stream and garrote him. This man of all men least deserved even the most menial gesture of respect, especially from him. If Elizabeth chose to think badly of him for this failing, so be it.

Without a word, he jerked Admiral's reins and galloped away, turning his back on them both.


End file.
